


everything i've ever been, belonged to you the second you claimed it

by ExtremeEvil95



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst & Jokes, Blink And You Miss It Bruce/Thor, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes-centric, Dialogue Heavy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hinted unrequited Steve/Tony, Lighthearted Mess With Angst, Mild Sexual Content, Natasha Romanov Feels, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Set Before & During Avengers: Infinity War, Slow Build, Slow Pace, Spoilers For Infinity War!!, possible ooc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 04:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15766287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExtremeEvil95/pseuds/ExtremeEvil95
Summary: Natasha comes to visit him two months after he got out of cryo.





	everything i've ever been, belonged to you the second you claimed it

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> First off, I'd like to say I've never written anything for this pairing before. So I apologise if they seem OOC, I pretty much mixed MCU with comics and my own interpretations as I went along, some scenes may not fit with the flow but I really wanted to explore different approaches and hope it's not a complete mess!!
> 
> Set in the 2 year timespan between CA:CW and IW. 
> 
> I'm not English, nor Russian, so I apologise for the grammatical errors and the Russian segments being lousy online dictionary translations. All translations will be featured in the end note. I've tried to correct the most obvious errors, but I'll go through the story and correct more when I got the time!!
> 
> Some dialogue and scenes are taken from IW and changed slightly to fit with the story.
> 
> Please do enjoy! And be kind, I've worked on this for months and I'm not in the greatest state of mind, so please, be gentle with me! x
> 
> Characters/setting belongs to marvel, plot belongs to me.  
> Title originally from a song by Dermot Kennedy.

Natasha comes to visit him two months after he got out of cryo.

  One day she was just there: in the palace, falling into Steve’s step like they’ve never been on different sides to begin with. Bucky’s seen her around. He doesn’t know how she got here, nor for how long she’s been here.

  Never in the same space. Only glances thrown from afar.

  Until now.

  She stands tall, hands on her back and her face scolded into a blank expression. Waves of red curls falls down over her back and shoulders. Dressed in all black with god knows how many weapons hidden into the seams of her suit. Beautiful. Utterly deadly.

  Glimpses of memories floods Bucky’s head when he takes her in. Though most of his memories still under tight wraps, he has a faint recollection about pieces here and there. Some small, like the stale smell of cigarettes in crowded clubs back in the 20s; others much bigger, like the names of his family.

  Natasha is a whole nest of memories on her own. He knows it, even though he only remembers what ought to be the tip of the iceberg. Tiny glimpses, together creating a picture he doesn’t know what to do with. Not yet. Not until he’s become _someone_ again.

 Looking at her now, he mainly remembers a feeling. Being warm and cold at the same time: a weird, burning itch beneath his skin that exhilarates him as much as it frustrates him. Cloudy mornings. Freshly fallen snow. Breaths turned into clouds in front of their faces. Smell of burnt wood and a crackling fire in a on old fireplace.

  From a different time, in a different place, using different names.

  He used to be able to read her. Every calculated line, the nonchalance in her eyes; she’s a language he’s forgotten how to speak. It hurts, that particular truth hurts.

  It shouldn’t matter. He hasn’t spoken to her since he woke up. Hell, he hasn’t been alone nor been this close to her until this moment - what he remembers about her shouldn’t matter, but it does. It _does._

  ”So,” she says.

  ”So,” he repeats.

  Her lips tug upwards in the beginning of a smile. She cocks her head to the side, curls following her movements. Against the pale wall, she stands out like a stain of spilled wine. Green eyes barely leaving his.

  Still, Bucky’s sure she’s mapped out his entire room; every little thing that can be used as a weapon to take him down if she needs to.

  Her eyes burns into his. Picking him apart, slowly and without much discretion.

  Should be uncomfortable, to be under the intensity of her gaze. It isn’t.

  ”No arm?” she wonders.

  Bucky raises his hand to ghost his fingers over where his metal arm used to be. Layers of fabric keeps him from touching the scarred skin, what little remains of the metal; he can still sense it through every last piece, a different sort of cold he can’t escape.

  ”No arm,” he echoes, letting his hand drop back down to his lap, fingers tapping against his thigh. Words seem to escape him; he doesn’t know what she wants from him. _If_ she wants anything at all.

  With Steve, even Sam and Shuri, it’s easier. He knows what to expect of them; Shuri, brilliant and never pushing him to share things if he isn’t ready, yet merciless with her jokes and prods (for every reference she shouts at him that he doesn’t understand, he likes her company a bit more); Sam, on the other hand, is as much of a pain in the ass as he’s a delight to be around. He’s blunt and keeps Bucky on his toes; no matter how much he says he dislikes him, the truth will remain the exact opposite. And Steve, well, Steve’s _Steve_. Family. His best friend he’d go through hell and back for. Steve knows when to talk and when to give Bucky room to breath; his memories are all over the place, but Steve remains the one, constant thing he keeps coming back to.

  Natasha is neither of them, and that throws Bucky out of his loop.

  ”How are -”

  ”What are you doing here, Natalia?”

  The mask cracks. Her eyes widen, enough for Bucky to notice the difference; he wants to understand the emotions he sees flashing over her face, but nothing lasts long enough to completely stick.

  A different name. One she used to go by, before.

  When she speaks, her voice is quiet. ”No one’s called me that in a long time.” Natasha moves further into the room, slowly, as to try and see how long she can go before he pushes her away.

  He doesn’t. Her company isn’t unwanted.

  She ends up by the window with her back against him. Her hair is longer, reaching past her shoulderblades with ease. Longer than he’s ever seen it. Frankly, it suits her.

  Then again.. doesn’t everything?

  ”How much do you remember?” she irks her head to the left, hands curled loosely at her sides. ”все?”

  Bucky lowers his head. ”[ достаточно ](http://www.online-translator.com/dictionary/ru-en/%D0%B4%D0%BE%D1%81%D1%82%D0%B0%D1%82%D0%BE%D1%87%D0%BD%D0%BE) . остатки,” turning, he catches her reflection in the window; ghost of a smile on her lips. ”I’m sorry for attacking you. In Germany. And Washington. I didn’t remember…” _You,_ Bucky thinks. _I didn’t remember you._

  Quietly, Natasha moves away from the window. Bucky half expects her to leave altogether. Naturally, she does the exact opposite.

  ”Do you mind if I sit?”

  The bed is big enough for the two of them to sit apart from each other. Bucky still scoots over towards the headboard, leaving Natasha plenty of space to choose from. Yet, Natasha ends up within arm’s reach; the bed dips under her added weight, the smell of her perfume timid but present. Clear, as freshly fallen snow and icy breaths. He ducks his head, staring down at the floor.

  ”You don’t have to apologise, I don’t hate you for what you did. Sure, it was a little infuriating that you didn’t recognise me at first, but I don’t hold that against you either,” she folds her hands together on her lap. He feels her eyes on him, but he can’t bring himself to meet her gaze.

  ”I can’t hold that against you. You weren’t the first person I cared about to hurt me, and you certainly won’t be the last. In fact, I’ve been in brawls with Clint more than once, and we’re still friends.”

  Bucky trusts her. He trusts the sincerity in her words, even though it doesn’t ease any of his troubles by much. It’s a comfort though, knowing that she doesn’t hate him for what he’s done to her. Though she probably shouldn’t.

  Silence spreads between them. Bucky searches for the right words to say, but nothing comes close to what he wants to tell her.

  He lifts his head and looks at her with a strained smile. ”Why did you come here?”

  Natasha levels him with a stare of her own, almost soft around the edges. ”I’ve barely seen you since I came to work with Steve. So, instead of getting all the gossip from him and Wilson, I had to see how you were doing myself.”

  Of course. Reminder than he can’t tell Steve nor Sam anything without it spreading to others. His smile turns into something real. Briefly. Then it fades altogether. ”I’m fine.”

  She squints her eyes slightly. ”You’ve gotta give me something better than that.”

  ”I’m.. getting _there_ . Whatever _there_ means. Is that ”something better”?” he offers. She rolls her eyes at him, he counts it as something good.

  ”намного лучше,” she says and means it.

  

*~*

 

”Will I see you around?” Bucky asks when Natasha’s about to leave.

  She’s standing in the doorway, hand around the doorframe with a unreadable look in her eyes. Her being here, without her guard up; it makes him realise just how much he’s missed having her around.

  The smile she gives him is tiny. Genuine. ”I’ll try to squeeze you in when I can.”

   

*~*

 

Bucky meets with Shuri in her lab three times a week. The weight around his heart, shaped as the years he yet has to fully remember, always feels a bit easier to bear once he leaves. Shuri’s done everything she can to mend the pain, but not even someone with her knowledge could remove it completely. The process is both excruciating and tiring for Bucky deal with it.

  Hurting is nothing new. Pain is one - if not the only - thing that has been a constant part of his life. Before he fell from the train: a life he had to abandon due to a war ruining everything he’s ever dreamt about achieving; after the fall, when he travelled through the world as the Winter Soldier under HYDRA’s control, pain was the proof of him being alive; being _human._ Now, as this broken version of a man with only parts of a history: parts of a _life,_ pain is still there, only different.

It’s not only painful, his sessions with the princess. Sometimes she simply shows him movies or teaches him more about this new, strange world. Only after spending a few hours in her company, he’s grown to understand that everything she tells him might not be entirely as serious as she makes it out to be (she tried to convince him that he should get a new arm to participate in a particular gesture that _apparently_ worked as a greeting in Wakanda. When he later googled what ”dab” actually meant, he realised that a part of the young princess was full of shit. She wouldn’t stop laughing at him for days).

  It’s good, though. He goes to his meetings, both with her and his psychologist, Ganiru, that T’Challa recommended him. In between all of his meetings and training sessions, he spends his time exploring the city or spending time with Steve and the others when they’re around.

  He enjoys walking around the capital, Birnin Zana. The city couldn’t be any more different from New York, bathing in bright colours where New York bathes in city lights. He’s amazed by the architecture; the smells, the food, how everything feels alive in a way he’s not used to anymore.

  He disappears into the masses, roams around the edges to observe everything from afar. Always looking over his shoulder, expecting the worst to happen. Months have passed since anyone was after him. Yet, he can’t shake the feeling of being hunted. He’s spent so many years on the run, staying still isn’t something that comes easy to him.

  A new country, a new city, and he still wishes from time to time he could leave everything behind. Get out of the city, where he can find a place for himself and try to build a life. Whatever that might look like.

  He expects the other shoe to finally drop; for everything to break apart.

  No matter how much he doesn’t want things to go to hell, he knows it’ll happen. In the end, it always does.

 

”Where do see yourself in the future?”

  Ganiru’s old. Crinkles around his eyes, streaks of white in the black of his hair; always calm, always understanding. His eyes reminds Bucky of moss and stone, kind but stern.

  Three months have gone and Bucky’s only recently felt comfortable enough to actually share _anything_ with Ganiru. Memories and how they make him feel; this new age, his friends, how he’s settling into a life without HYDRA monitoring his every move. He shares snippets of everything - everything but one thing.

  The Winter Soldier.

  He doesn’t know how to speak about what he’s done. Not yet. Not when thinking about his missions still makes him all numb inside.

  Bucky shifts in his seat. The room’s small; couple of chairs, a lamp and a window with a great view of the city and the forests beyond it. Beautiful. Calming.

  ”I.. I don’t know,” he hesitates, rubbing at the back of his neck. As a kid, he had dreams, hopes for how his life would turn out. That kid died when he fell from the train; the man that came out on the other side didn’t know how to dream anymore. ”Too busy thinking about the past.”

  Clicking his fingers together, Ganiru studies him over the brim of his glasses. ”Do you see yourself stay here in Wakanda? Or do you want to go back to New York?”

  ”There’s nothing for me in New York. Hasn’t been for a very long time,” Bucky swallows around the stone in his throat: formed of the dangling, frightening possibility of a future, one he never thought he’d get. ”I like it here, but.. I don’t know, the palace isn’t for me. I’m not a part of _this_ ,” he finishes, waving his hand around curtly.

  Ganiru nods again, brows knitted together in a faint frown. ”And why is that?”

  There’s a few reasons, only one with any sort of weight. ”I’ve done so much the public would hate me for. Living here, it’s all on borrowed time. What I’ve done will come out sooner rather than latter and when it does, it won’t end well.”

  ”You’d have to run away again,” Ganiru concludes with his eyebrow raised. ”You don’t want to run anymore, do you?”

  Uncomfortable by having to face with what he wants so plainly, Bucky turns away from Ganiru’s knowing gaze to look out through the window. He wants to stop running, but does he deserve to rest? He’ll never be able to stop looking over his shoulder; stop being on his guard. But deep down, he just wants a place of his own where he can try and make something of his life.

  How easily he can lust for a life where he doesn’t have to use a weapon, where he’s free to do as he pleases without anyone directing his every step - it should scare him. All he’s ever done since he left for the war in the 40s is to fight and kill. Blood colours his hands red so thoroughly he can’t imagine them ever becoming clean again.

  Settling down, the thought terrifies him as much as it excites him. If he wants to become a person again, the one he _wants_ to be, he’ll have to leave that part of his life behind. This is his first, proper chance of deciding what _he_ wants to do. What sort of life he wants to live.

  For now, it doesn’t involve fighting.

  Would Steve understand? Sam? _Natasha?_

Bucky bites the inside of his cheek. He digs his fingers into the armrest of his chair, feeling too big, too tight. The words stacks upon each other on his tongue until he can’t hold them back anymore.

  ”I don’t want to run. Or fight. I’ve been running for so long I barely remember how to walk,” he pulls at a loose string, slowly and with precision, ”I want to remember how it feels to have a place to stay; something that feels like a home.”

  Ganiru looks at him for a long time, silently studying him with those deep eyes of his. He shows nothing of what he’s thinking, his body relaxed while he remains deep in thought.

  Bucky tries to read him, but he comes up with mixed theories. Silently he stares back, his own words becoming something heavy and utterly _true_ in his chest.

  Finally, Ganiru’s face breaks into a smile, showing off rows of crooked teeth. ”I think that’s a reasonable want to have, James. A place where we can feel safe and sleep soundly through the night. You deserve a place to call home just as much as I do; as anyone does.”

  Deserve? Bucky isn’t sure he deserves anything after what he’s done. He shifts, uncomfortable with the belief lined in Ganiru’s words. Belief in the good of Bucky’s heart: a man deserving of a second chance.

  He wants this chance. _God,_ how much he wants it.

  ”I’ll talk to the princess about what you’ve told me here today. If you want to stay in Wakanda, there’ll be a place for you here.”

  Bucky tugs at the loose string and removes it completely, twirling the string between his fingers. He doesn’t dare to hope. Doesn’t dare to believe he deserves anything of this, but yet there’s still a faint spark of hope in his chest.

  ”Thank you,” he says, lips tugging upwards in a faint smile.

  Ganiru acknowledges his words with a nod, smiling as well. ”Don’t thank me yet. There’s still much to be done, but I’ll say this, James: your future doesn’t have to be anything like your past. We’re doing this for _you_ and your chance at a life free from HYDRA. You don’t owe us anything.”

  Bucky thinks about how the other shoe one day will drop. But today is not the day it does.

 

*~*

 

Later when Bucky’s back in his room again for the night, he thinks about how Ganiru called him James, not Bucky. It shouldn’t be notable, since Ganiru’s called him James since their first meeting, but after his meeting with Natasha, James has a new meaning to him.

  Bucky hasn’t used his _name_ in so long before he came here. Not since _her._ In front of a old fireplace, beneath a red blanket. Moments of clarity between pecks of death and hurt.

  To everyone, he’s Bucky. Except Ganiru. _Natasha._ But, out of the two of them, Natasha’s the one who says _his_ name and make it sound like it belongs to him.

  ”I’m James,” he whispers into the dark. ”James Buchanan Barnes.”

 

*~*

 

Memories comes and goes.

  Specks of colours, feelings rushing through him with intensity, only to be morphed into something different the second after. The pain is nothing like HYDRA. White, hot and burning in short doses, leaving him with brief moments to breath in between.

  While HYDRA ripped him apart by the seams, Shuri’s connecting the dots back together.

  He grunts, fingers pressing into the cushions tightly.

  Natasha’s there; flickering through his mind, going in and out of focus.

  The Red Room. Green eyes burning. Different names.

  He tries to hold onto her; the memories of her, their joint past. No memory remains entirely intact, glimpses slips through the cracks and leaves him with broken pictures.

  How they sat huddled together in front of a fireplace, sharing the same heat under the same blanket. Her hair between his fingers, soft and damp. Caused by rain? A shower? He doesn’t know.

  How they got there; _why_ they were there, it’s all in the dark.

  But the softness of her hair, the glimpse of her teeth when she smiled up at him and the low hum of her voice when she spoke - he remembers it all.

  Pieces of a time when he loved her, and she loved him back.

 

*~*

 

Bucky paces around the room. Towards the Closet. Back to the desk. Repeat. He’s supposed to meet Steve down by the palace’s gym in less than ten minutes to do some sparring. So naturally, his nerves decided to show that they are in fact alive and functioning. He knows _why_ he’s nervous, and it’s got nothing to do with the sparring in particular. They’ve trained together frequently since Bucky got out of cryo, it’s nothing new. But it’s the first time he’s had enough time with Steve alone since he came to the decision to not return to the field any time soon.

   _That’s_ what bothers him about this. The tiniest chance that Steve might take his decision the wrong way: as if Bucky chooses to stay out of it due to the lack of caring about what they’re fighting _for_ rather than to focus on himself and how to get better. It’s a stupid thing to be nervous about, Steve’ll understand.

  But then again. Nothing’s ever for certain. Not even Steve.

  ”Barnes, you’re a big idiot,” he mutters to himself, dragging his fingers through his hair. ”Шут гороховый.”

  Steve, Sam, Natasha and the Maximoff girl - Wanda - are all heading out on a mission in the morning. Neither of them know when they’ll be back more than that it’ll probably last longer than a week. Something about surveillance and infiltration. Right up Natasha’s alley.

  Bucky needs to tell Steve about his decision tonight. Get it out of his way so he can fully focus on his journey forward, without having to get all hung up on if his best friend supports him or not.

  It shouldn’t matter at the end of the day. Thing is, it _does._ A lot.

 

A knock on the door startles Bucky out of his thoughts. He tightens his fist in sheer impulse but loosens it as soon as Steve pushes the door open, faint grin on his lips.

  ”Hi,” he says. ”Ready to go?” Dressed in a simple pair of slacks and a t-shirt that’s too tight, Steve looks somewhat .. _normal._ Almost. Like his entire life hadn’t been flipped upside down recently, the hurt in his eyes nothing more than a bad dream. He tries his best not to show it, how much the fallout with the team affected him, and it’s such typical _Steve_ thing to do that it both warms Bucky’s heart as much as it annoys him.

  Steve’s different than before. Longer hair. The beginning of a beard on his cheeks. He doesn’t talk about Siberia.

  Bucky manages to smile, a unconvincing thing sparking Steve’s attention even more. ”Yeah, hold on a sec.” He gets his water bottle and then heads out after Steve, the two of them falling into the same rhythm instantly.

  Steve doesn’t say anything. Neither does Bucky.

  They’re almost halfway through the palace before Steve opens his mouth again.

  ”You got something on your mind, buddy?” he says, nudging Bucky’s elbow. ”You’ve got that look in your eyes. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

  Bucky snorts. The root of the problem right there, laid out in the open so easily. ”Works both ways, you know.”

  Steve has enough dignity to look away, mouth turned into a line. ”I’m sorry, Buck. You’ve had enough on your plate as it is, I didn’t want to burden you with my problems as well.”

  Bucky halters them both by placing his hand on Steve’s elbow, keeping him in place. Sometimes Steve’s stubbornness can be admirable, on how tightly he holds onto his beliefs. Most of the time, it’s a bit of a pain in the ass.

  ”That’s only half of the truth and you know it,” Bucky eases his grip, letting his fingers remain in place. ”You’ve never been good with words. Had to drag things out of you when we were kids, so why would it be any different now? Just because of the shit I’m going through doesn’t mean I’m not up to help you with your problems.”

  Silence falls, a beat too long while Steve searches Bucky’s face after something - a trace of lies, that Bucky’s putting up a front for him and hiding the reality where Steve can’t see it. Bucky doesn’t flinch, only stares back until Steve’s caught his breath again.

  ”I’m still terrible at this, aren’t I?” Steve huffs out a bitter chuckle, dragging a hand over his face. ”It’s still.. I don’t know what to say, but when I do, I’ll tell you all about it, Buck. That’s a promise.”

  Knowing Steve, that’s as good as it’ll get. Bucky takes it for what it is, Steve asking him to trust in him once more, and Bucky _does_. Behind the stubborn, righteous exterior is a man thrown into a life he never asked for, trying to make the best of what he has. A good man.

  ”You’re free to pour your heart out while I tackle you to the floor,” Bucky says with a grin. He drops his hand from Steve, removing the water bottle he’s kept under his arm to take a swig from it.

  Steve only shakes his head, the corners of his mouth turned upwards. ”So that’s how it is, huh? I’d like to see you try.”

 

The first few weeks they sparred, Steve held back on his punches. Bucky hadn’t expected Steve, of all people, to act like Bucky would break at the moment things became a little rough. It was infuriating to say the least, but Steve snapped out of it once Bucky clocked him over the head and told him he wasn’t made of glass. Oddly efficient, to say the least.

  Bucky trained with Okoye and Naika as well when Steve was out on missions. All of their styles were different from another; Steve and Okoye both fought with a tactical approach, but while Steve relied more on his brute strength, Okoye used precision and her weapon to dismantle her opponent; Nakia worked differently, quick and relentless with her attacks. She fought with similarities to Natasha, but with obvious exceptions. All of them came with their own challenges; Bucky had been slammed into the mat more than once over the last few months thanks to them.

  Today goes a little differently. Bucky usually keeps up with Steve’s pace, sometimes even outmatched him, but today he falls flat on the mat more than once. He’s not fully used to only have functioning arm, the phantom pain coming and going in waves, and when his head is somewhere else, obsessing over what he’ll need to tell Steve once the training is done, it doesn’t end well.

  By the fourth time Steve’s sent him falling, even Steve’s caught up that something’s not right.

  He sits down next to Bucky, who’s sprawled out on his back, chest heaving up and down with rattled breaths.

  ”Weren’t you supposed to tackle me to the floor or are you going for a more subtle approach?”

  Bucky flips him off before pushing himself upwards into a sitting position, winching at the ache in his side. The tape around his knuckles is already loose, specks of crimson over the white.

  The words lies heavy on his tongue.

  ”There’s something I need to tell you,” he says, keeping his voice as even as possible. His nerves are on top of his skin, that much he knows, but he can’t back down now.

  Steve gives a small nod, urging him on. ”Shoot.”

  Bucky takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. ”I’m.. I’ve decided to not do any missions. If I want to get better, come to terms with what I did and what I need to do if I want to go forward, I can’t be out in the field with you and the others.”

  The weight around his heart eases. Truth’s out in the open, nothing Bucky says now can take it back. Steve’s support won’t change anything; he’ll stay off the field whatever Steve likes it or not. This is Bucky’s decision to make.

  He focuses on his breathing. In. Out. Repeat. All while staring straight ahead, at the windows revealing the city’s skyline.

  Steve’s quiet.

  Bucky takes it as his cue to continue. ”I’m gonna get my own place outside of the city here when Shuri gets rid of the triggers completely. I don’t know what’ll do out there, but I’ll think of something. It’s my decision to make: this is what I want to do.”

  Steve remains quiet. Bucky feels his eyes on him, how they make his skin itch with nerves.

  Then, the moment’s gone.

  Steve stands up, clothes shuffling around as he moves when he offers Bucky his hand. Bucky takes it without hesitation, letting Steve help him back up. He stands there awkwardly, his hand back at his side while he gives in to meet Steve’s gaze.

  ”If you don’t want to fight anymore, Buck, that’s up you. I’m not going to make you do something if your heart isn’t it,” Steve’s sincere, eyes shining with something fierce and so utterly _Steve_ it brings Bucky’s lips to tug upwards. ”You deserve to rest after what HYDRA did to you, get a chance to recover in your own pace. If you ever change your mind, even if it’s tomorrow or years down the line, there’ll always be a place for you with me.”

  A weight lifts from Bucky’s shoulders. He still has his best friend with him. No hate, no sour expressions or demands to make Bucky reconsider. Far better than what he expected.

  Words leave him hanging. There’s nothing he can say that’ll be better than ”thank you”, so he settles on the next best thing.

  ”Can’t stand around all day, old man,” he pats Steve’s elbow, managing a smirk while his eyes shines with unspoken gratitude. ”I’m in a dire need of a rematch.”

  Steve only laughs in response. Without the weight of the mistakes on his shoulders, if only for a moment, he looks somewhat happy. And, frankly, that’s quite something.

 

*~*

 

Once they’re done with the training, Steve decides to walk Bucky back to his room. The sparring and Bucky’s confession about what he’s planned for the future have cleared the air somewhat between them; there’s no tension, only comfortable small talk about the mission Steve’s leaving for in the morning. It’s nice, talking to Steve like this, but when they’ve gone through the objective of the mission and a lot of possible scenarios to prepare for, it’s time for a change of topic.

  Bucky decides to bring up one of the things he’s thought about ever since he got out of cryo months ago. One the things he’s pretty sure are behind the ever so present roughness in Steve’s eyes, the tension in his shoulders.

  ”Have you heard anything from Stark lately?”

  The mood shifts in a heartbeat. Steve’s smile falters, something pained stretching across his face. He ducks his head, keeps it hanging low for a moment before he shakes it.

  Fingers reflexively touches the pocket of his pants. Bucky knows about the phone; knows that Steve carries it with him everywhere he goes. What he doesn’t know for sure is how much the damn thing truly means.

  ”You can call him, you know. See if he really hates you as much as you think he does.”

  Steve’s head snaps up. His cheeks aren’t red enough to be comical, but there’s a pink tint that makes Steve’s squinted eyes look a lot less threatening than what he probably intended.

  ”I don’t think - it’s not that easy,” Steve crosses his arms over his chest, looking ahead with a pointed stare. ”If Tony wanted to talk, he would’ve called. He hasn’t even texted, so I don’t want to bother him and ask for forgiveness when there clearly is none to be spared.”

  Bucky sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose tentatively. ”How can you possibly know that when you haven’t even tried contacting him with that damn thing you take with you everywhere?”

  ”I don’t -” Steve snaps his mouth shut, eyelids falling shut as he takes a deep breath. When they flicker open, the sadness is real enough to touch. ”I’ve done enough already as it is. If he wants to hear from me, he knows where to find me.”

  Bucky’s about to retort when he spots the silhouette of a person heading their way. Takes no more than a second for him to recognise who it is.

 

Red hair pulled back into a ponytail. Black suit changed into something a lot more casual, black jeans and a black tee with loose sleeves. She’s even shorter without the extra height in her uniform boots; not by much, but enough for Bucky’s heart to stutter in his chest.

  He feels something flutter, something he’s found in Steve’s eyes whenever he talks about Stark.

  Bucky doesn’t know what to make of it.

  ”Nat!” Steve greets with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

   Natasha smiles back, bowing her head in brief acknowledgement. ”Steve,” she says, eyes flickering towards Bucky, ”Barnes. What a coincidence I’d run into you two here.”

  ”What’s up?” Steve continues.

  Natasha eyes him for a moment, then she turns to Bucky.

  ”Actually, I wanted a moment with Barnes, if you two are done?”

  Bucky keeps the surprise hidden inside of him, settles on a more casual approach by nodding his head. Steve raises a curious eyebrow in their direction, but Bucky dismisses it with a look that leaves no room for questions.

  ”Sure thing,” Steve says. ”I’ll think about what we’ve talked about, Buck. See you when I get back. Stop by my room later, Nat? Last minute planning for tomorrow.”

  ”’S good to see you, Steve. See you when you’e back.”

  ”I’ll be there in a sec, Rogers.”

  Without further ado, Steve heads off in the direction of the room he’s staying in, therefor leaving Bucky and Natasha on their own. Bucky’s suddenly aware of trivial things: how he should’ve taken a shower back at the gym, his hair loosening from the bun he’s put it in to keep it out of the way. It’s ridiculous really, but Natasha doesn’t seem to mind any of it.

  She eyes him curiously, lip between her teeth. Her gaze flickers between the sleeve where his arm used to be - the barely covered up metallic stump and his face. It’s subtle, but Bucky’s seen it enough times to know what she’s looking at.

  ”I see you’re keeping yourself busy,” she gestures for Bucky to follow her, the two of them walking down the corridor together side by side. ”Hope you gave Rogers a hard time. He needs some sense slapped into that thick skull of his.”

  The smirk she sports is nothing short of amused, gaining a snort out of Bucky.

  ”You know Steve. Couldn’t do it even if I tried.”

  He keeps glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. Water bottle in hand, they’re close but not close enough to touch. She’s a much of a mystery now as she was the first time she came around looking for him.

  Bucky clears his throat. ”How you’ve been, Tasha? Haven’t seen you around in awhile.” The nickname slips out before he can stop himself.

  It’s one of the most recent memories he got of her. Smiles shared in private, him smiling and breathing in her hair while she held him close.

  For every little memory of her he remembers, he misses her more.

  Natasha blinks. The corners of her mouth moves upwards, something strong and glimmering burning in her eyes. ” _Tasha_ , huh? What happened to _Natalia_?”

  ”I’ve called you both before. Still, you didn’t answer my question,” Bucky points out. ”You’ve been gone awhile.”

  Natasha contemplates him for a moment before she answers. ”It’s busy work, keeping my web intact. Going off with Steve complicated a lot of things; things that I need to clean up from time to time.” Coming from her, it’s the most detailed answer he’ll probably get.

  ”You’re alright, though?” Bucky wonders. ”Not in too much trouble?”

  He thinks back to the Red Room. Every look they shared, every moment they spent together had been the two of them walking the fine line between salvation and destruction. Trouble came naturally to them both; things haven’t changed in that retrospect.

  Natasha tilts her head to the side, eyes narrowing slightly. ”Nothing I can’t handle. It’s not the first time I’ve had to face past mistakes, after all. Might have to leave the red behind for awhile, until things have settled down,” she curls a lock of her hair around her finger, ”what do you think, James? Think I can make blond work?”

  Bucky turns his head, biting down on his lip. She’d make blond work. Then again, she’d make _anything_ work. Whatever colour, style, she’d pull it off effortlessly.

  He opens his mouth, but the words gets stuck on his tongue. Natasha’s moved closer; her hand is raised, silently gesturing towards his hair with her eyes which makes him nod somewhat dumbfounded. His throat is dry, heart stuttering with every beat in his chest.

  Natasha moves her fingers through his hair, pulling at the simple rubber band he uses to keep it all in place. All of it comes out, plummeting down over his neck and she removes a proper hair-tie that she keeps around her wrist, using it to pull Bucky’s hair into a new, better bun. He stands rigidly, painfully aware of every move she does; her nails scraping against his scalp, the firm tug when she swirls his hair around to get in place.

  ”You need better stuff than this to keep all _that_ in place,” she offers as a explanation, pointed look at Bucky’s hair while swirling his old rubber band between her thumb and index finger. ”Be nice and I’ll let you borrow some of mine.”

  Bucky flashes her a look of amusement, tempted to reach up and touch where her fingers were moments before. He doesn’t, instead he lets his hand remain at his side, fingers grabbing onto the water bottle with a little more strength than before. ”Thanks, you’re doing a much better job with it than I am,” he ducks his head, a few strands falling down across his face, ”besides, Tasha. You’d make anything work. The hair, I mean. Blond, brown, red - you’d pull it off.”

  ”душка," Natasha teases. It’s different than the smiles and the calculated looks that sees right through him; close to some sort of normalcy they’ve never had, which he enjoys.. _a lot._

They’ve only spoken a handful of times since he woke up. Yet, it feels like they never stopped being _something_.

  ”Takes one to know one,” Bucky retorts, nudging Natasha’s elbow. ”You asked for my opinion, take it or leave it.”

  Natasha shakes her head, suppressing a smile by dragging her bottom lip between her teeth. They’ve reached Bucky’s room, Natasha leaning against the doorframe with her shoulder while Bucky leans on the opposite side. He should ask if she wants to come inside, wants her to stay longer.

  She can’t. Steve wants to see her; she’s leaving tomorrow, and Bucky doesn’t know for sure when he’ll see either of them again.

  He wets his lips, looking away from her face. The good mood - the easy conversation, he wants to hold on but it slips away between his fingers. What he wants to happen and what reality is like hardly ever line up. ”You’ve leaving tomorrow.”

  ”So is Steve,” she says, holding up her hand, ”Wilson. Wanda,” for every name, Natasha puts a finger down. ”Whole gang, except for you.”

   _Except for you._

For a moment, Bucky contemplates if he should tell Natasha about his decision. Her not agreeing with him would hurt. A lot more than he wants it to. She’s still out there, doing her job, despite everything she’s been through (things he’s only begun to find out) so why couldn’t he do the same?

  Natasha pulls him out of his thoughts, fingers tapping against the door. ”You’re not coming back out in the field.”

  Not a question. A statement.

  Bucky snaps back to look at her, not downright gaping but close enough to be similar. How did she -

  ”I can see it written all over your face, James.”

  Bucky’s smile is pale and uncertain. She can read him, meanwhile he’s still questioning every little thing she does to him. What’s real or not. Yet, he trusts her; trusts her not to lie to him, even though she lives by telling them. ”I, yeah. I’m gonna stay here. Ganiru’s working on something with the princess, hopefully I’ll get a place of my own. Some peace and quiet.”

  Surprise pools in Natasha’s eyes, warmth in the way her mouth curves into a soft grin. He thinks about different days; cold mornings, when she dared to smile wide and bright and he loved every second of it.

  Things have changed. Yet, a glow in the pit of his stomach tells him some things aren’t that different after all.

  She touches his shoulder. Warm fingers against cold metal.

  ”Sounds like a dream. Stay away from all _this_ for as long as you can.” Her fingers travel down the slope of metal, stopping just above the edge. He can feel her like electric jolts travelling through him, each of them making him more and more confused. Confusion over what he feels; what she _feels._

”You got out. A chance most of us will never get,” behind the green lies something raw, unseen Bucky’s only caught this very glimpse of. Constant hurt Natasha keeps with her but barely shows. He wants to tell her it won’t have to be like this; that she’ll get the chance to leave everything behind one day, if that is what she really wants to. He just doesn’t know where to start, everything he wants to say remaining in the back of his head.

  Her grin turns into something sadder, no less real. ”Take care of yourself, and I’ll kick some ass out in the field for you. Do we have a deal?” She removes her hand from Bucky’s shoulder to hold out for him to take it. Lack of her touch is apparent, her warmth lingering against the fabric of his shirt.

  He coaxes himself to stand straighter. His hand feels to big when it slots around hers, grip firm and precise. ”Deal, but only if you promise to stay safe tomorrow. Can’t take care of myself if there’s no one around to be baffled about my improvements.” As their hands break apart, his fingertips linger against her wrist. Briefly, her pulse beats against his.

  She doesn’t pull her arm away. No, she smirks and it sends another jolt through Bucky’s limbs. ”Don’t worry, красавец. With Rogers and Wilson, what could _possibly_ go wrong?”

 

*~*

 

”Aren’t you a little too old to be the welcome committee?”

  Bucky can’t see Shuri’s eyes thanks to to the ridiculously big sunglasses she insists to wear, yet he knows how what smugness looks like. She crosses of all the signs on the list. Really, she should be infuriating with her ridiculous humour and joking constantly at his expanse; hanging out with Sam has prepared Bucky for this, so it comes as no surprise that he’s begun to enjoy her company. She knows about what he’s done, yet she still treats him like a human being. The caution she had around him in the beginning is gone now, changed into something far more relaxed; hell, even _friendly_.

  If there’s something Bucky needs in his life, it’s people who doesn’t look at him in fear.

  He shoots her an unimpressed stare. ”You didn’t have to come, princess.”

  ”To let you stand here by yourself like a sad puppy? Don’t think so,” she retorts. ”Besides, wanna see first hand in what state my tech’s in. If Wilson’s lost another Red Wing, I’m gonna flip.”

  The others have been gone for three weeks. Three particularly _long_ weeks. Barely checking in, and when one of Steve’s calls or his encrypted messages came through, a lot was left for Bucky to fill in the blanks himself. At least his friends were alive; or, that was the case three days ago when Sam sent a text.

  Being out in the field like they were, it’s risky business. Every mission could be their last, Bucky knows that, and that’s the thing, isn’t it? That every hour between those messages, a part of him thinks he’s received the _last._ He’s sure of his decision to stay off the team for now, but it still leaves him with a tension in his gut whenever the others heads out without him, no matter how much he wants to stay behind.

  ”Are you even sure they’ll come back today?” Shuri pipes up, head tilted to search the sky after anything that could pass as a Quinjet. ”Or are you just out of better things to do?”

  Bucky snorts dryly. ”I got a text.”

  He shows her the phone with the message, ”back in 3” sent by Sam three days earlier. A bit inconspicuous, since it could mean anything from 3 minutes to 3 years. Minutes and hours got crossed off the list rather quickly, so Bucky’s got a good feeling days might be it.

  ”Oh _wow_ , that’s specific,” Shuri comments. ”Exact place and time and everything. Nothing left in the dark _at all_.”

  Bucky only sighs.

 

Surprisingly, they don’t have to wait that long before a Quinjet appears up on the sky. As it flies closer, the tension in Bucky’s chest unravels bit by bit. Maybe he’ll have a quiet night tonight, without tossing and turning with worry itching just beneath his skin, unable to fall asleep no matter how tired the rest of him is.

  Being left behind is tough. But, he thinks, being out in the field, even if it would’ve been with his friends - people he _trusts_ and that hopefully trusts him back, is much _worse_. He’ll remain here, trying to piece together a reality and a person that’s not bound to or breathing war; enough bloodshed has been caused by his hands; enough pain and suffering, forced by HYDRA with his mind and body as the executioner. No more.

  The Quinjet lands smoothly on the landing pad. Takes no more than a minute before the ramp lowers and Sam exits with his gear still on. Natasha and Steve are nowhere to been seen, but the lazy grin spread across Sam’s face tells that there’s no reason to be worried.

  ”Would you look at that. Wakanda’s best and brightest, welcoming us home personally,” Sam grins, flickering between Bucky and Shuri with badly hidden mirth. ”And Barnes’ here too. Really know how to make a guy feel special.” He makes a little mock-salute towards Bucky while offering an even wider grin at Shuri. Behind him, Steve and Natasha appears by the ramp; walking downwards, in the middle of a discussion.

  ”Welcome back, Mr Wilson,” Shuri greets.

  ”Good to see you too, bird brain,” Bucky offers, unable to keep the smile off his face. ”You didn’t fly into the sun this time either, huh? Such a shame.”

  ”Oh fuck you, man,” Sam shoves at Bucky’s shoulder lightly with a dirty look in his eyes, before turning his full attention to Shuri. ”Princess, I gotta say, the upgrades you’ve done to my wings are incredible. Smooth and works like a charm. You really know what you’re doing.”

  Shuri basks in the compliments, giddiness oozing of her in waves. ”Thank you. Let me take a look at them and I’ll see if there’s something I can tweak.”

  Bucky excuses himself from the conversation and heads over to Steve and Natasha. Neither of them looks hurt, which is a good start. The same wariness in Steve’s eyes remains from before they left, a constant exhaustion in his bones he tries so hard to not let anyone show (the old Bucky would know what to do with that, how to make Steve talk about what’s bothering him. He’s not the old Bucky. He doesn’t know the rights words to say. Not anymore). Bucky sees through it, because he knows what it feels like. Natasha, on the other hand, barely looks faced at all. If he looks close enough, he can spot the hard glint in her eyes, one she tries to hide with familiar nonchalance.

  They’re different than Sam, who's talking loudly and carefree with Shuri about the wings and adjustments that can be made to the Red Wings. He wonders what happened, if Sam’s a better actor than Bucky’s given him credit for.

  ”Took you long enough,” he asks. ”How did it go?”

  Natasha shrugs half-heartedly. ”Job’s a job. We got it done.”

  He doesn’t ask her what she means. He already knows.

  

  *~*

 

Another session, another few hours spent soaked in sweat while Shuri goes through his mind and pries at what’ll cause his triggers. HYDRA plowed through his mind, wiping it clean time after time again by building walls around all of his memories; pushing his own self back long enough so he lost touch with who he was until only the Winter Soldier remained.

  For every session, he feels like he regains a part of himself in some way. Memories or pieces of a personality he’ll have to mend with this new one: the person he’s become after his escape from HYDRA, a different man than the one who joined the army so many years ago.

  He sits at the edge of the seat, wiping at his face with a towel. A familiar ache lingers in his bones; his head swimming with impressions he needs to put in order. Shuri knows what she’s doing, and for that he’s grateful.

  ”We’ve made a lot of progress today,” Shuri informs him, eyes glued to her monitors. ”Ganiru told me you wanted some change. Are you ready for the next step?”

  Bucky frowns. The next step? He doesn’t know anything about a next -

  Oh. _Oh._

He spins around as much as he can, hope surging through his chest like a wildfire. It’s dangerous to hope, to jump to conclusions he’s not even sure of, but this could only mean _one_ thing.

  ”So my brother set this up for you. It isn’t much, I know, but you’ll have running water, portable lights and other forms of electricity at your disposal if you want to,” Shuri types something on her monitor, holograms appearing seemingly out of thin in front of her. All of them feature a small hut; a piece of land Bucky can call his own. ”Right by the forest, so you’ll have your privacy and also opportunities to grow your own crops and take care of some of our cattle, if that’s what you want. We’ll have it ready for you by the weekend, so start packing.”

  Holograms of inside the hut appears, showing off a simple construction with room for both a bed, storage for food and anything he could possibly need. It was the complete opposite of the palace, with all it’s tremendous tech and beautiful designs; two entirely different universes. One he felt a stranger in. The other he could make into his _own._

He’s moved. By the generosity and patience in Shuri, T’Challa, Ganiru - all of the people he’s met here so far. They’ve done so much for him; a stranger asking for everything, and getting everything he’s ever wanted in return. He knows T’Challa wanted to repay him for what he put Bucky through when Bucky was still a suspect in T’Chaka’s murder, but Bucky never expected the payment to be this generous. They’ve given him a chance to become someone free from war, free to choose what to do with his own life.

  He’ll never be able to thank them enough.

  His throat feels thick when he tries to use it, swallowing around the stone and smiling so much it hurts pleasantly in his cheeks for the first time in weeks. ”I.. I don’t know what to say. I.. - thank you.”

  Shuri offers him a kind smile. She points a not so threatening finger at him, waving it around to truly emphasise her words. ”You come back here at least once a week for your sessions with both me and Ganiru, you hear me? Otherwise I’ll come and drag you back here myself.”

  Bucky startles a laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. ”Of course. Thank you for everything you and your brother have done. For me, but also for my friends. Thank you.”

  He’s too busy studying the holograms to catch how Shuri ducks her head, unsure how to deal with Bucky’s genuine gratitude. This is not Bucky complimenting her on her work; this is different, and they both know it.

  ”You’re not so bad for a hundred year old, broken white boy,” she muses, pulling another laugh out of Bucky.

  ”Broken white boy? Is that another one of your internet references?” he wonders.

  Shuri only grins. ”I’ll leave that for you to find out.”

 

*~*

 

Two days later, Bucky backs what little he owns into boxes. One of them - the one containing his old armour - he’ll leave for Shuri to care for, in case she’d like to use it for anything scientific. The rest, he’ll bring with him down to his new home.

  Excitement runs through him when he meets with Sam and Steve down in the palace foyer. The palace has been exceptional in every way, with everything he could possibly imagine only a minute away. Yet, the sadness he feels about leaving is no more than a weak sting in his chest compared to the lightness and relief of getting a place of his own; away from the buzz and crowds.

  ”This all you got?” Sam gestures to the two boxes Bucky’s carrying. ”You’ve been up for what, four months now? In the coolest damn place in the world? Shouldn’t you be swimming in stuff by now?”

  Bucky hands one of the boxes to Steve, who takes it without protest.

  ”You do realise I don’t have any money at all, right?” Bucky points out, holstering the gun higher up on his back. He can’t deny how strange it is to be carrying a gun again after months of having it locked away in his closest. ”The royal family have done enough already as it is, I’m not spending all of their money too.”

  Sam considers what he’s said, shrugging with a expression that best could be described as ”can’t argue with that”.”I’m gonna go and get you a nice souvenir for your new place the next time I’m down at the market. The ugliest damn thing I can find. Just to brighten your life, man.”

  ”No need for that when I get to see your face around,” Bucky retorts, startling a laugh out of Steve while Sam looks at him with clear disbelief and amusement.

  ”That’s what I believe the kids call a _burn_ ,” Steve offers, much to Sam’s dismay.

  ”Shut up, both of you,” Sam proceeds to wave a threatening finger in their faces, trying to hold back a smirk. ”Fossils aren’t meant to know modern slang, it’s unnerving,” he turns towards Steve, ” _especially_ when it’s coming from you.”

  Steve raises one arm in mock-defeat, and the three of them continue to bicker back and forth while they head out to meet with Ayo, their guide for the day.

 

The walk down to the hut is a nice one. Ayo doesn’t say much, she walks ahead of them with determined steps, spear in hand. She guides them through the landscape by heart, through tumbling streets on to smaller roads, until they’ve left every ounce of society behind: green hills, scattered animals and a stillness that can’t be found in any city.

  Ayo’s red uniform stands out compared to the soft green of their surroundings. She barely turn her head to speak, but when she does it’s only about directions or some interesting fact about where they currently are.

  Steve and Sam are a step ahead of Bucky. They’re discussing the scenery, how breathtaking Wakanda truly is, while Bucky quietly follows.

  Being out in here, away from the city, it’s a strange feeling. He wants this. Yet, he’s grown used to the constant noise of traffic, crowds and the business both inside and outside the palace. It’ll take time before he’s fully used to the silence; how loud his own breathing sounds when there’s nothing else to compare it too.

  ”We’re here,” Ayo calls out all of a sudden. She throws a brief look over her shoulder at the three of them, nodding her head towards the hill they’re about to climb. ”On the other side of this hill, your new home awaits, Sergeant Barnes.”

  Bucky tightens his hold on the box and walks past Sam and Steve in eagerness to see how the place looks like in reality. Ayo waits for him up at the top, the corner of her mouth turning upwards over Bucky’s awed expression.

  The hut lies by the edge of the forest. A tiny thing, next to a fenced coup that’s probably for the goats milling about out in front of the building. A giant tree resides not too far away from the hut, throwing specks of shade around the green grass. Breathtaking in all it’s simplicity.

  Bucky thinks he’ll like it here. _Knows_ this could be the place that he finally can call home and mean it.

  ”It’s..,” Bucky breaths, fishing after the right word to describe this place in a way it deserves, ” _beautiful_.”

  Ayo nods. ”It is.”

  A hand clutches around Bucky’s shoulder, followed by a appreciative whistle. ”Can’t buy views like these, man.” Sam releases his hold on Bucky’s shoulder and continues down the slope, over to the hut, with Ayo right on his heels.

  Bucky remains at the top a minute longer. Steve comes to stand next to him, the two of them staring down at the piece of land in silence. When Steve speaks, it’s quiet and wondering.

  ”How do you feel?”

  Bucky follows Ayo and Sam, how they’re roaming around in the grounds in front of the hut. The goats and chickens that watches the two newcomers with mild interest. All with a warmth in his stomach he can’t fake.

  ”Good,” he says truthfully. ”I feel good.”

  

The small family who used to live here moved into the city after the passing of one of family members. They moved into a nearby village and sold the hut to T’Challa, who’s kept it for safekeeping ever since. Bucky’s not the first one that’s come out here in search after a place to stay, away from the rest, and he probably won’t be the last, either.

  Ayo shows him around. The hut itself is one big room, with a storage for food and a place to cook in the far corner. He’s got a shower and toilet out in the back, in a separate shack next to the henhouse. She tells him about the surrounding land; what to expect from the goats and chickens, if he should be on the look-out for other animals; tips and tricks about any sort of thing he should know now that he lives out here. By the time she’s wished him luck and headed back to the capital, Bucky’s head’s swimming with all sorts of information.

  Sam and Steve stays with him. They help him clean inside, putting everything in order; unpack what little he brought with him, all while talking comfortably with one another. It’s nice. Having them around _is_ nice. Yet, he can’t stop thinking about what Natasha will think about all of this.

  If she even _wants_ to come and see him here. She’s been out on a mission of her own over the last few days, and he’s not sure when she’s due back.

  He misses her. But then again lately, doesn’t he always?

 

They end up by the fire pit out front, watching the sunset while eating together.

  ”You know, I’ve never taken you for the farmer type,” Sam admits halfway through the dinner. ”Nothing about you screams that you’re the outdoorsy kind of guy, even. Hell, Steve here could say he’s retiring to become a farmer and I wouldn’t even question it, but you, man. I don’t get you.”

  Steve laughs. ”You can’t honestly believe that, can you? Bucky’s always been the caretaker out of the two us. He used to be a bit of a mother hen when we were kids.”

  Sam’s eyebrows shoots up in surprise, exclaiming ”really?!” while Bucky holds up a finger towards Steve in a way he hopes is menacing.

  ”You’re walking on thin ice, pal,” he warns without no real heat, all while Sam bursts out laughing. ”I didn’t have much of a choice, did I? You were out picking fights every five minutes, if I hadn’t been there you’d be a bloody pulp in a dumpster somewhere and you know it.”

  Steve has enough self awareness to at least look the slightest bit guilty, raising both of his hands in  defence. ”Maybe that was my fault -”

  ” _Maybe?_ Man, it was totally your stubborn ass fault for picking fights with people twice your size. Became quite the expert at patching up wounds though, so thanks for that.”

  Sam looks at Steve in utter disbelief, eyes wide. ”Were you searching after people to fight with or something? _’Nah sorry man, I gotta go and get my ass beat in the back alley behind Luis’ café in 10,  rain check that coffee?’”_

  ”That’s exactly how it was!” Bucky exclaims, pointing to Sam. ”See, Wilson gets it.”

  Steve shakes his head, coming up with the most ridiculous excuses all while he touches the pocket of his jeans. He doesn’t even seem to realise he’s doing it, just a gentle tapping motion against a bump that has to be the phone Steve carries around all the damn.

  Always on the ready, just waiting for Stark to reach out.

  If Bucky hadn’t killed the Starks while under HYDRAs influence, would they still have ended up here? The Avengers broken in two, most of them on the run from the American government? Or would they all have been back in the states at this point? Stark helping Bucky with his memories instead of Shuri?

  He tries not to think about it too much. If he does, the sorrow swallows him whole. A dark tunnel where he can barely breath, not with the claws digging into his lungs.

  Sam and Steve are still talking loudly with one another, laughing over stupid things they’ve done while out on missions and memories from before the team broke apart. They let Bucky be, and for that he’s grateful.

  He leans down to splay his back on the ground, knees still up. It’s not particularly comfortable, but it does the job. The sound of his friends’ voices are a gentle buzz in the background; he tries to focus on them while pushing away the thoughts of everything else. Everything that went wrong in Siberia.

  All these endless _what if’s._ He doesn’t know how to deal with any of them.

 

The sun’s almost completely gone, the sky painted in a deep, dark blue.

  ”If you don’t hear from us in a few hours, we’re probably lost,” Sam studies the slope and the hills towering behind it. ”Send out a search party or something, yeah?”

  ”No chance, things would finally be quiet around here,” Bucky replies in a instant, causing Sam to scoff at him. ”Aren’t you supposed to be able to fly?”

  ”Do you see my wings lying around or? Despite popular belief, I don’t care them around everywhere I go,” Sam shoots back.

  ”And you call yourself _Falcon,_ man, disgrace to birds everywhere -”

  ”It was great seeing you, Buck,” Steve intervenes before any real damage is caused. Bucky have a habit of getting into the weirdest arguments with Sam, it’s one of the foundations of their friendship. ”I’ll try to come around when I can.” He pulls Bucky in for half a hug, patting Bucky’s back lightly and pulling away.

  ”Don’t be strangers,” Bucky says. He rolls his eyes over the mock-salute Sam sends his way, watching his friends as they leave; two silhouettes becoming one with the falling night.

  The stillness knocks into him with force. Without Sam and Steve there, the silence is close to deafening. Bucky makes sure to stomp the last of the glow out from the fire, his nerves on the outside of his skin heading into the hut for the night.

  He’s managed to remove his shirt and thrown it onto the floor when he notices something on the edge of his bed. It’s darker than the rest, and it’s _moving -_

Bucky inhales sharply while he takes a step back in surprise; he curses loudly to himself when it becomes terribly clear that the shape is in fact one of the hens. It cackles at him, clearly annoyed by his intervention, and Bucky tries his best to scare it off his bed by waving his arm around. ”Off you go, I’m not gonna share my bed with you, lady.”

  The hen does listen to his wishes, jumping off the bed in a mess of feathers and disappointed sounds. She waddles past him, stopping to pick at the ground every now and then as she goes.

  Bucky sighs, letting the drapery fall down behind the bird. Being that still and sneaky, it makes him think of Natasha. Her sneaking up at him more than once, both now and in the Red Room; how he managed to play it off as nothing, while his heart was hammering in horrified surprise in his chest. She was the best at what she did. Always had been.

  The thought brings a smile to his face.

 

*~*

 

The scream tears through his throat, sounds clawing their way out as Bucky jerks awake. Skin covered with sweat. Hair stuck to his neck, chest heaving up and down in rapid, rattled inhales. He pushes at the blanket, desperate to get away; somewhere where he isn’t stuck to sticky sheets and feeling like his chest might cave in with every breath he takes.

  Dreaming or not, he can still sense his old hand closing around someone’s throat; metallic fingers pressing and pressing until the bones break like twigs. He’s felt it so many times, how he presses the life out of someone. It terrifies him as much as it hurts. Holding his closed fist in front of his mouth, he muffles another scream ripping through his throat.

  He’s sunken down on the floor in the middle of the hut. Whole body shivering, he slowly opens his fist and drags fingers across his stump; how it goes against every painful sensation of his arm still being there, working as good as ever. He presses his nails to the metal. Hard. The nerve ends left jolt inside, a timid pain causing Bucky to groan.

  The pain grounds him. By the time he’s stumbled out of the hut, he’s realised where he is and left utterly and completely speechless.

  He’s met by the brightest night sky he’s ever seen. One could never get a clear sky in New York, not even in the old days; the stars were few and scattered across the sky, where it’s now bathing in stars. Even if he tried to, he wouldn’t be able to count all of them.

  Still with his eyes glued to the sky, Bucky manages to force himself out of the hut and over to the fire-pit. He sinks down, body giving in, until he’s on his back, next to the darkened wood and a few embers that yet have to stop glowing. The smell of burnt wood is everywhere, but he doesn’t mind it nor the lukewarm winds pulling at his hair, clothes and caressing his skin.

  The pain’s subsided into a familiar ache, blooming just beneath where the metal is attached to his torso; where his arm used to be. He’s used to it now.

  Tiny pebbles and dirt digs into his bare back. Against the fabric of his shorts he wears for bed. His bare feet. Lying like this, feeling _everything,_ he comes back to his senses.

  Another nightmare. How long did he get to sleep this time? 2 hours? More? Less?

  Sleep’s never come easy to him. At least he didn’t use to wake up screaming every night before. The Winter Soldier barely slept, and once he did, he did so soundless for a few hours at tops, if he wasn’t forced into cryo to prevent his ageing.

  He never got to live with what he did then. Not like he has to do now, always waking up with a agonising scream in his mind and blood on his hands.

  A part of him, tiny as it might be, feels envious of the soldier. How the horrible things didn’t get to him the same way; with all of the conditioning to prevent him from remembering, he barely felt anything but numb.

  The Red Room was the exception. In there, with Natasha, he learnt how to _feel_ again. He remembers everything of their past now. Flickering warmth whenever he caught her eye, hidden behind masks of nonchalance; how he’d done anything for her, and the heartache when they were torn apart.

  Natasha was the one, good thing in a past littered with malice and tragedy. After all he’s done wrong, he wants to hold onto the memories of the one thing he did right.

 

Bucky has no idea how long he lays there on the ground. Minutes, hours, everything blurs together.

  Rustle of leaves and grass, Bucky knows he’s not alone. He pulls himself upwards, steadying himself with his elbow buried into the dirt.

  Probably just one of the animals, but he readies himself to do a quick exit to his hut and retrieve the gun from under the bed if he has to. He spies into the darkness, seeing how a shape that’s distinctively _human_ ascends down the hill. Holding his breath, he slowly moves into a crouching position; ready for anything.

  The shape comes closer. It doesn’t take him long until he fully recognises _who_ it is.

  Tension pours of him as he sinks down again, planting himself onto the dirt. He can’t force himself to smile, but there’s a familiar warmth spreading through his chest he’s learned comes with _her._

”Tasha,” he declares his presence, even though she’s probably already spotted him lying out here miles away.

  ”James,” she replies tightly. None of the usual lightness is there. Only a timid rawness that makes Bucky’s skin crawl with recognition.

  He’s not the only one battling with demons once the sun goes down.

  ”Something’s wrong?” he asks, watching her as she comes to a halt next to him.

  A shiver runs through her, arms crossing across her chest. ”Can I..?”

  ”Of course,” Bucky says, ”wait here.”

  He gets up and leaves her standing there, grateful that he’s not stumbling anymore at least. None of his usual grace nor certainty is present, so he moves slowly through the hut in search after something Natasha can wear to keep her warm from the winds. He comes up with a hoodie he’s barely worn and heads back out.

  ”You didn’t have to,” Natasha argues when he extends it to her. ”I’m fine.” Despite what she says, Natasha still takes the hoodie; it’s a bit too big, him being a good few inches taller than her, but she doesn’t complain.

  ”I know,” Bucky smiles faintly.

 

They end up lying next to one another on the ground. Close enough for their arms to be pressed together, skin against fabric. Bucky’s gazing up at the sky, but the only thing he can think of is Natasha right there beside him.

  It’s not like when Sam and Steve hung out merely hours ago, filling the air with mindless chatter and infectious laughs. No, Natasha remains quiet except for the timid sound of her breathing.

  Having his friends around, he enjoys the banter and normality of it all. But this, being able to share the silence with someone like Natasha, who’s faced some of the same demons as he’s done, it’s something entirely different; something he can’t have with someone else.

  Once the sky lightens up, bleeds into red and gold with the raising sun, Natasha sits up. Her hair burns in the light, matching the sky with it’s intensity. She gawks in awe over the sight in front of her; the beauty of it all.

  ”It’s… amazing,” she breaths.

  ”It is,” Bucky agrees.

  He can’t take his eyes off her.

 

*~*

 

Life out here, away from the buzz and crowds of the city, is much easier to settle into than Bucky first thought. Waking up with the rising sun, working outside all day, taking care of both the animals and the land, doing whatever he wants to do, it leaves him with a taste of freedom in his mouth and a content feeling in the pit of his stomach he haven’t felt in years.

  Always on the run, hiding from HYDRA and trying to regain control of his mind on his own, it never gave him a chance to just sit down and rest. There was always a sense of dread lingering under his skin, the fear that his mind would betray him at every given turn.

  Some of it remains. Probably always will. But, Bucky’s mind is his own. He’s free to do as he chooses, free to decide over his own faith. And he loves every second of it.

  It’s a simple life. _His_ life.

  He still wakes up almost every night, screaming, his whole body shivering in a cold sweat. When it feels like blood is stained across his hand, the dying beat of someone’s pulse against his fingers, he goes out and chops wood or digs in the dirt until his body trembles from exhaustion and the blood is nothing but sweat on his fingertips.

  When the nightmares aren’t as bad, only leaving him with a strain to his breathing and trembling hands, he stumble outside and sit by the hut, staring up at the sky, until the colours come back.

  The amount of nights he’s slept soundly until morning can he count on his remaining hand and still not use all of his fingers.

 

  He goes into a nearby village every now and then to gather supplies. No matter where goes, he’s bound to drag attention to himself; this village is no different. The looks are more curious than they were in the city; whispers behind hands, but it doesn’t affect him the same way here. Some of the kids from the village pops by his home, watching him work and helping with the animals. It’s nice, how easy it is for him to be absorbed by their excitement about him and life.

  Out here, he feels _free_ in a way he hasn’t done in a really long time.

  The kids aren’t the only people to keep him company: Sam and Steve comes over when they can, along with Shuri and Ganiru. His friends mainly help with whatever task Bucky’s set up for himself that day or just sit around and talk about anything that comes up. Usually Sam tells him about stupid things Steve’s done while they’ve been out on missions, and he does it in such a way that leaves Bucky breathless and with a rim of unshed tears of laughter in his eyes; Steve’s always in the defensive, trying to assure Bucky that it wasn’t _nearly_ as bad as Sam makes it out to be. It only makes Bucky laugh harder.

  There’s still a lot he needs to tell them about his past. He knows Steve’s waiting for him to open up, but the words grow stuck in Bucky’s throat whenever he sees the expectations shimmer in Steve’s eyes.

  One day he’ll be able to talk about everything without tearing his heart out in the process. If he thinks too much about what he’s done, the amounts of blood painting his hand red, he’ll grow numb. He couldn’t control what he did; survival came first, and that meant obeying orders he had no choice but to follow. Nonetheless, it didn’t erase the fact that he was the one carrying out the acts, whatever it was his decision to do so or not.

 

Natasha is what takes him most by surprise.

  After that first night, she continues to come down to see him. Hardly during the days, always on her own, when the stars are out.

  They sit together outside, leaning against the hut while the watch the stars together. They talk; about Russia and everything in between, their past together. They sit in silence, enjoying each others company. Sometimes Natasha even brings around a tiny device they can listen to music with; working through the decades, everything Bucky’s missed while he was the soldier.

  Elvis. The Who. The disco music of the 80s.

  Bucky would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy having her around.

  Spending time with Natasha like this, he gets to see the person behind the Black Widow. The Natasha he used to know so long ago.

  When he thinks of her, he doesn’t think about cold mornings and crackling fire anymore. No, he thinks about starry skies and soft touches.

  Through all of these years, his love for her has been buried deep beneath everything. She’s been an itch under his skin, running in his veins.

  He understands what it means now. He loves her, despite everything they’ve been through.

 

*~*

 

One day Bucky decides to explore the surrounding woods. He packs light and heads out before the sun has reached above the trees. What little light there is, shines golden through the leaves; everything is green, flowers and trees taken straight out of those nature shows he watches when he can’t sleep.

  The air is thicker in here, humid yet fresh. Earthy, rich smell that seems to come from all around him. He walks along a path paved by countless people before him; pace slow enough so he can take it all in.

  New York had its parks and spots of green. Bucky have travelled the world, seen sights pretty enough to be paintings in museums. Nothing comes close to the beauty of this place; how every tiny, microscopic part of the jungle breaths of life. Strong, vibrant life bathing in colours.

  He keeps walking deeper into the forest. Sticks and loose leaves rattle beneath his feet, birds singing their songs, jumping from tree to tree.

  Tiny rodents run across his path; balls of fur running into the bushes or spying on him from beneath a pile of leaves. Bucky tries not to scare them away, moving even slower and with the exact precision of his training to move as quietly as possible. He crunches down, fishing out a piece of bread from his backpack he breaks into tiny pieces.

  The animals, small things with fluffy ears and tails, watches him curiously as he proceeds to to sprinkle the bread over the path.

  He kneels down, slightly sinking into the soft dirt. How many hours hasn’t he spent in this exact position up on rooftops or hidden gaps in walls, always with a gun clutched in his hand? He’s so used to taking lives; bad people, good people, people at the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Everything was worth sacrificing for the sake of the mission. Casualties were just that - casualties.

  His hand curls into a fist at his side, rattled breath coming out through dry lips.

  It’s not who he is anymore. Doesn’t make it any less part of him; his history.

  The tiny rodents watch the crumpets with interest. One of the smaller ones dares to come forward, tiny legs moving quickly over the ground. It takes a crumpet with even tinier paws, munching on it with great determination.

  Bucky releases his breathe slowly, quietly not to disturb the small creature in it’s lunch. He can’t stop himself from smiling when it moves onto the next one.

  No gun this time. Only a backpack with food, water and a small knife for emergencies.

  No death. For once, there is only life.

 

Bucky doesn’t know for how long he’s walked when he comes across the lake. It’s a small thing, tucked between trees and rocks with a pouring waterfall. A hidden gem in the middle of all the green.

  He’s struck by the sheer and utter beauty of the scene. How still the water is, the trees and the sky reflecting over the surface like a big, clear mirror. If Steve would’ve been with him, he’d almost be sure his friend would’ve sketched the lake down (if he did that sort of thing anymore, that is).

  The water is warm against his fingers. He thinks about ice and cold mornings; the sea smashing against concrete, stone and wood when Steve and him went down to the bay in New York when they were kids.

  He thinks about how the person he used to be then (the one Steve wants him to be) won’t ever come back.

  The only thing he can do is to try to be the person he wants to be. Bucky, through and through. But to be that person, he’ll have to come to terms with who he’s been and who he wants to be. One can’t exist without the other.

  Bucky lets the water drop from his hand while he removes the fabric he’s tied around his stump. It comes off without too much effort, quickly followed by his top and pants. He places his things by the water, knife hidden partly beneath his pants, then he heads for the water. It’s warm enough to not make him shiver as he steps down, enjoying how strange it feels to wade though the water when he can’t even remember the last time he did it.

  Takes only a minute for him to wade deep enough to have the water reach above his navel. He dives into it with as much grace as he can muster. The moment he goes through the surface, he enters a different world where everything is shimmering in green and blue, rays of sunlight dancing in front of his face. His hair is loose and floating around him, a dark gloria he only sees the ends of.

  Letting go comes easy. He floats beneath the surface, the water caressing his skin, until his lungs can’t take it anymore. Breaking through the surface, dragging air back into his lungs; he does so with a smile. He shoves at the hair sticking to his face, lighter and.. almost _happy_ in a way he hasn’t felt for years.

  Sunlight warms his skin.

  He can’t remember the last time he felt this alive.

 

*~*

 

The night comes, and he wakes up screaming.

  Pain, mixed with seething hot anger surges through him, burning in his veins. He’s shaking badly, legs barely carrying his weight as he gets out of bed. His arm’s there, the one he lost, he can sense it so vividly every nerve stands on end.

  Bones cracking beneath his fingers. Gurgling sounds of people choking on their own blood.

  He collapses out in front of the hut, on his knees in the nightly breeze.

  It’s too hot. Too cold. He’s burning up inside with fear and anger.

  People scream in his mind; his old trainer in Russia, the HYDRA commander, ordering him to get up, make them proud, to kill for them - _kill, kill -_

Bucky pounds his fist against the ground. He pounds it over and over again until the skin on his knuckles break and colour the dry dirt with stains of red.

  No breaking bones, screams begging for him to stop.

  Only him, wiping at the tears streaming down his cheeks and smearing blood over his skin. It hurts, but differently from his nightmares.

  Bucky prefers this. Pain so real it shuts everything else out.

 

He sits out there in front of his hut until the sun’s begun its climb behind the trees.

  Only then can he get some sleep.

 

*~*

 

Bucky wipes at his forehead, sticking the pitchfork into a nearby pile of hay. Chest heaves up and down with every breath, familiar strain to his limbs from hours of non-stop work. Hay stacked into different piles; some he’ll place into the pasture, the rest he’ll save for later.

  He’s not working alone.

  ”You know what they call you down in the N’Djaka village?”

  Shuri doesn’t even glance up from where she’s going through holograms with one of those technical beads of hers. Bucky’s stopped trying to understand how those things work more than they run on some kind of power, but he’ll never stop being impressed with what the princess can come up with on a whim. He’s fascinated by this century, as much as he doesn’t understand it. Despite that, he still wants to know. Wants to understand, but in his own pace.

  If he only could show his young self all of this, the young man who brought dates to the Stark Expo and wondered how the future would be. His young self would’ve probably passed out from excitement alone.

  Shuri came down to the hut hours ago for their weekly appointment. They talked, like they always do; discussing his progress, how he’s doing generally, that sort of thing. Never ends with just the talking though. Shuri usually sticks around for hours afterwards if the weather allows it; sitting out by the tree, fiddling with some new project on her tablet. Bucky doesn’t mind the company.

  Bucky leans against the pitchfork, arm against the shaft. He has to squint his eyes when he looks at her not to get blinded by the sun. ”Broken white boy?”

  A bright laugh comes from the princess, followed by finger guns and a ridiculous wink over the top of her just as ridiculous sunglasses. Out of all the things he’s come across in this new century, Shuri truly is the hardest one to get a good grasp of. Genius. But with that baffling sense of humor. ”I wish. Sadly, they’re a bit more dramatic than that.”

  ”How could they possibly come up with something that’s _more_ dramatic than ”broken white boy”?”

  Shuri shrugs, pushes at her sunglasses with a thoughtful twist to her mouth. ”I don’t know, you’ll have to ask them. Do you want to know or not?”

  Rolling his eyes, Bucky motions for her to go on. He shifts his grip around the pitchfork and continues with his previous task to move the hay around. ”Shoot.”

  There’s a drop in Shuri’s voice, flair for the dramatic, that one. ”The White Wolf.” With all the seriousness she tries to maintain, Bucky almost misses the giggles she tries to restrain.

  Bucky stops for a second, frown in place. Huh. That’s.. original. He shrugs, going back to work. ”Better than the Winter Soldier, I guess. It _is_ dramatic, I’ll have give them that.”

  ”For someone that goes with ”Bucky” willingly, I think it’s a improvement.”

  Pitchfork in hand, Bucky points it at Shuri in what Bucky hopes will be a at least somewhat threatening gesture. She laughs at the sight of the raised tool and he knows he failed big time. ”You’re on thin ice, princess. Don’t disrespect your elders.”

  Shuri resembles the embodiment of a pleased cat as she leans against the trunk of the tree, winking over the top of her glasses. She pulls her gaze off him, eyes widening dramatically as she spots something out in the field.

  ”Oh man, _that’s_ new,” she murmurs, eyes still on whatever she’s spotted. Looking at Bucky, she breaks into a huge grin. ”You’ve got company,” she adds practically singing the words. She only does that for one person. Being the nosy teen she is, Bucky’s not surprised she’s figured his feelings out before he even got a hang on them himself.

  Is he that obvious or is Shuri just extremely observant?

  If Shuri’s tone hadn’t been indication enough, Bucky would’ve recognised Natasha from the way she walks alone. She moves with what comes across as subtle purpose down the hill, always with a goal in mind. Yet, having her here while the sun’s still up instead of the middle of the night feels almost strange; he’s grown so used to the private moments they share together he hasn’t considered the possibility that she could pop in at any time that much thought.

  Not only the timing is different, but something about her has changed since the last time they saw one another.

 ”Wait, she’s blond?” he asks under his breath, eyebrows furrowing together over the bright, platinum colour of Natasha’s new hair. Glancing over at Shuri, his surprise only gains a impressive eye-roll out of the princess. ”I’ve missed something, haven’t I?”

  Shuri walks over, patting Bucky’s shoulder lightly. He doesn’t flinch anymore from most casual touches; he’s not entirely used to them either, but at least he doesn’t lash out anymore. ”Man, there’s always something you’ve missed.”

  Bucky opens his mouth to retort, but Natasha raises her hand to wave at them and both him and Shuri end up waving back. He can practically feel the smugness radiating off the young princess, and he knows he’ll be grilled the next time they meet just the two of them. Oddly enough, he finds himself somewhat okay with that.

  Natasha’s dressed rather casually in a pair of yoga pants and a simple top, hair pulled back into a tiny ponytail; so different from when Bucky last saw her, weeks ago, with her long, red hair and uniform. She’s seemingly in a pleasant mood, greeting Shuri with a ”your highness” and warm ”James” for Bucky, all topped off with a smile beautiful enough to make Bucky feel a pleasant warmth in his chest.

  Shuri rolls her eyes lightly, grin tugging at her lips. ”You can call me Shuri, Natasha. No need to be so formal.”

  Frowning, Bucky turns to gape at the princess. ”When I call you Shuri, I’m being disrespectful, but it’s okay for Tasha?” Natasha shakes her head, hiding her smile behind her hand while Shuri flashes him the brightest of grins.

  ”Aren’t you supposed to be a true gentleman, _Bucky?_ ”

  Bucky dismisses her words with a wave of his hand, causing both Shuri and Natasha to laugh. The two of them together, he should definitely be worried about a team-up. He wouldn’t come out of it with any of his dignity still intact.

  ”I’m not having a debate about whether or not I’m a gentleman with _you,_ I know the facts and nothing you say can change my mind,” Bucky heads back to his pitchfork, smiling to himself over Shuri’s giggles. He glances back at his friends only to find Natasha regarding him with fondness deeply rooted in her eyes.

  It’s enough to make his fingertips tingle. He wants to bask in it for as long as he possibly can.

  ”Don’t worry, Barnes. You’re a _perfect_ gentleman,” Natasha muses, amusement glimmering in her eyes.

  Bucky shakes his head, keeping the smile to himself while he mutters under his breath. ”My friends will be the death of me.”

 

Natasha and Shuri sit around and keep him company while Bucky works with the hay and when he moves on to fix the fence around the pasture for the goats. Not too long after Natasha’s arrival, Shuri pays her goodbyes.

   ”See you in a week, wolfie!” Shuri flashes the most wicked grin, throwing her hand up in a peace-sign.

  Bucky waves her off with a fond eye-roll, shaking his head as the young princess disappears over the hill.

  ”Wolfie?”

  Natasha’s somewhere behind him, but Bucky can still picture the raised eyebrow and amused smirk gracing her features clear as day. He tilts his head to the side, catching her expression and it’s even better than what he imagined it to be like.

  The corner of Natasha’s lip is turned upwards, just like her left eyebrow; green eyes glimmering with delight. A strand of blond hair had fallen down across her face. Bucky wants to push it back behind her ear, but he holds himself back.

  ”I’m a man with many names,” he offers with a shrug.

  Natasha huffs out a laugh, that particular deliberate eyebrow still raised. ”Oh don’t I know. I’ve got a few in store myself.”

  ”None as good as what they call me here, Tasha. Can’t compete with The White Wolf and Broken White Boy.” Bucky nudges her with his elbow before crouching down to continue with his work. Natasha follows suit, sitting next to him on the ground and keeping an eye on what he’s doing.

  She picks up his hammer and swirls it around, head tilted to the side with a playful smile.

  ”Need a hand?”

   Bucky deadpans. To stop himself from cracking up over Natasha’s reaction is the hardest thing he’s done in weeks.

  She throws her hand over mouth, eyes comically wide. ”Shit, I didn’t intend, _fuck._ I’m sorry. That was a low blow, I’m starting to sound like Clint.”

  Stifling back a laugh by biting down on his lip, Bucky ducks his head to hide how funny he finds all of this.

  Being a spy - a damn good one at that - Natasha notices his troubles only seconds later.

  ”I’m trying to apologise and you’re having the fucking time of your life,” she says and pushes at his shoulder.

  ”It’s not the first time I’ve heard bad hand puns. I’m friends with both Wilson _and_ Shuri, you know. You’re not the worst by far, Nat,” he smiles, pleased by how unguarded she is around him today. A lot more carefree, the lightness of her mood rubbing off on him. He nudges her knee, smile in place. ”I do need a hand so I’ll hold it steady while you hammer the nails down, yeah?”

  Natasha eyes him suspiciously for a moment, as if she expects him to put her on the spot again. He waits her out, feeling victorious when she moves forward to help him out, sitting on her knees with the hammer in hand.

  They’re close enough to brush against one another. She smells sweet, like pineapple and the sea, intoxicating as it’s calming.

  She makes his head spin in the best possible way.

 

They work on the fence together for hours under the blazing sun. Alone it would get done one way or another, but with Natasha’s help, it’s even kind of enjoyable. She does what Bucky’s having a hard time to do with just one arm, always calm and cool even if things goes wrong the first time around.

  By the time they take a break, they’ve managed to finish more than half of the fence. Bucky observes their progress, pleased with how good it looks so far.

  To get out of the sun, they’ve settled by the wall of his hut where the sun can’t reach them. They’re both warm and sweaty at this point; Natasha scattered her top an hour into the session, going by Bucky’s example as he scattered his shirt almost instantly.

  Bucky tries not to think too much about how close Natasha is, how there’s something disheveled and messy about her with the blond hair escaping her ponytail more and more and faint colour on her cheeks.

  If he thinks too much about her, he’ll crumble from the weight around his heart. God, he’s fucked, isn’t he?

  ”You’re good at this,” Bucky comments, taking a sip from his bottle of water. ”Is there anything you’re not good at?”

  Natasha scoffs, leaning her head against the hut. She eyes him out of the corner of her eye, smirk in place. ”Plenty, you just haven’t found out what yet. I should blame Clint, really. He bought a farm a couple of years ago, which still baffles me to this since he’s a real disaster when it comes to farming. Like, the guy can shoot and hit a target from a mile away, but when it comes to hitting nails in the right place, he’s got worse aim than a toddler. I’m not much better, still, it’s a nice way to get a break from everything,” she glances around at the trees; the goats milling around, chewing on fresh hay. Nostalgia lingers in her gaze, full to the brim with memories, ”Clint’s never been the outdoorsy kind of guy, but I guess it comes a point in life when the only reasonable thing to do is to buy a farm somewhere and build everything from scratch. You should know, you’re not too far off from what he did. Difference is that you actually seem to know what you’re doing.”

  Bucky smiles at that, wondering if she’s only saying that to be nice or if it’s actually some truth in what she’s sharing with him. He has an idea of how much this Clint means to Natasha, and he can understand why to some extent. Clint and Natasha have worked together for SHIELD for years. There’s bound to be some sort of attachment after that.

   Even though he’s only met the guy briefly while in Germany years ago, he got the impression that Clint was a good man. Someone worth to put your trust in.

  ”Do you miss him? Must be weird to be out doing jobs without him.”

  Natasha takes a swig from her own bottle, contemplating her next words. After a moment’s pause, she shakes her head. ”I can’t ask of him to leave his family just because I miss having him out with me in the field. He’s retired, after what happened in Germany and the Raft, there’s nothing I can ask him to do for me anymore.”

  You wouldn’t go and buy a farm without a family being involved somehow. Bucky wonders if Natasha’s ever dreamed of doing something like Clint: retiring from this whole business they’re in, settling down somewhere with someone she loves and living a life free of fear and heartache.

  He wonders if those dreams feel as foreign to her as they do for him.

  ”Don’t you want something like that? Settling down somewhere, living the simple life?” he asks, heart jumping up in his throat. He’s sure he’s crossed a line, going into some unspoken territory of personal wishes and experiences they’re not yet ready to share with one another.

  He knows what the Black Widows had to go through when they graduated in the Red Room. Knows how such a procedure done against your will is bound to leave a scar. One that may never heal.

  The easiness in Natasha’s posture grows more secluded, a harder touch to the green of her eyes. Despite the change in her mood, she still answers Bucky’s question. ”What I’ve wanted and may want don’t fit with the life I live. I’m lucky enough if I even can go back to a normal life after everything I’ve done,” she doesn’t even try to smile when she checks his reaction, only her eyes showing off what she truly feels, ”maybe I should drop off the face of the Earth as well, getting my own farm somewhere in the middle of the jungle. Seems to be working okay for you, and I think it’s safe to say that you’ve got a hell lot of more enemies than I do.”

  She tries so hard to hide it. The hurt behind her words, how much this life she lives have cost her personally. He knows it’s there because he feels the same way. He knows what it’s like to have a life decided by someone else and how hard it is to build something of your own in the wreckage of everything you’ve ever known.

  They’ve been through similar things. Faced similar fates.

  While Bucky’s got a chance to leave it all behind, Natasha’s still in the middle of it all.

  ”If you could change your whole life, would you do it? Would you change anything?”

  Natasha stays silent. She contemplates the forest, oblivious to how Bucky’s watching her and waiting for any sort of reaction. His heart sinks in his chest when she gets up without another word, placing the bottle by the hut and heading down towards where they left things off by the fence. Maybe he did step over a line, god, why couldn’t he ever keep his damn mouth _shut_?

  Bucky expects her to gather her things and leave. He should know by now when he thinks he knows what she’ll do, she does the exact opposite.

 

They continue with the fence in silence. Systematically and precise, working around the pasture until they’ve reached the place where they began.

  It’s barely time for dinner. Sun still blazing, warm and light.

  Natasha’s got to go. She’s promised to meet up with Steve and the rest of the crew to go over the upcoming mission.

  Bucky doesn’t want her to leave.

 

”I wouldn’t.”

  Bucky wipes at his face with the towel, frowning when he looks over at Natasha.

  ”What?”

  A small, sad smile plays on Natasha’s lips. She’s turned away from studying the city to keep him in place, eyes roaming over his face, searching after something. ”I wouldn’t. Change anything in my life or my past, that is,” she clears her throat, shifting her weight from one foot to another, ”I’ve done horrible things to others and to myself, both under someone else’s orders and my own. My life’s been far from perfect, but I wouldn’t change anything. It’s my life, you know? Who would I be without all the mistakes I’ve made? All the terrible things I’ve been through? Would I still even be myself without any of that?”

 The honesty in her tone, how open she is, Bucky just wants to hold her close. She’s right there, telling him things about herself he’s sure she doesn’t share with just anyone and the only thing he wants to do is to make some of that hurt go away. She’s been through so much at the cost of others, he doesn’t want to be just another one of those mistakes; another stain of hurt to a already painful life.

  ”Natalia,” he croaks, voice strained. He reaches out and touches her hand, fingers gently mapping out where the dirt have left imprints on her skin, down across her palm and fingertips. Gently, she entwines their fingers, squeezing once.

  Pulling away, she smiles faintly at him.

  ”Goodnight James,” she says.

  Bucky watches her go until she’s out of sight, disappearing over the hills.

 

*~*

 

After Natasha left the way she did, a part of Bucky didn’t think that she’d come back. In their line of work, sharing something personal with one another comes with a whole different meaning than it does for the day to day citizen. Even though Bucky got answers to his questions, he firmly believed he’d cross a line until proven otherwise.

  Five days after their talk, Natasha proves him otherwise.

  At first, things feel somewhat timid between them. Bucky doesn’t push, he lets Natasha be while they tend to the goats together; silently working side by side. With time, they fall into a steady rhythm and begin to talk about everything again.

  When Natasha laughs, all loud and bright, for the first time, Bucky knows he’s done for. He leans against the pitchfork, eyes so incredibly soft and smitten as he admires Natasha, how she laughs and lets herself lose in a way he can’t quite handle.

  He wonders how it tastes to kiss her smiling mouth, if it tastes as sweet as he imagines it to.

  Thankfully for Bucky, Natasha tends to head down to his hut when none of his other friends are there. It’s enough to have Shuri tease him at every given turn, to add Sam on top of that would be downright horrible. He’d hear no end to the remarks of how smitten he is with Natasha, and when he still hasn’t dared to tell her how he feels, he’d like to keep that to himself for a little while longer without having his friends jeopardise everything.

 

It doesn’t take long until Sam finds out.

  It never does, really.

 

Both Steve and Wanda are out on their separate missions: Steve’s out doing a mission with the Carter girl, Sharon, while Wanda’s off the radar somewhere with someone Bucky isn’t entirely sure he knows who it is. He hasn’t asked, and he has a feeling Wanda wouldn’t tell him if he did.

  With both of them gone, Sam spends a lot more time down by Bucky’s hut than what he usually does. Having Sam around is a nice change of pace; they bicker and joke constantly, but in between the light-hearted banter, resides meaningful moments about things Bucky’s barely dared to speak out loud with anyone before.

  To share things with Sam, it’s different than what it is with Steve. A lot easier even. Sam doesn’t have a memory of how Bucky used to be before he became the Winter Soldier: all Sam knows about him, is how Bucky acts now. It’s freeing in a sense, to have someone without any expectations on how he’s supposed to be like.

  Steve tries his best to separate who Bucky is now from how he was before the war. Bucky knows he does, but he also knows he’ll never be able to compete with the version of himself that got lost in the war for Steve.

  It’s easier to be around Sam than Steve at times. Easier to fall into familiar bickering without having to worry about catching the tiniest flash of longing for a forgotten time in the depths of his friend’s eyes.

  Figures that the one person Bucky can’t win over would be himself. Sometimes, he wonders if the man Steve remembers even existed. Most of the time, he’s sure he didn’t.

 

*~*

 

The baby goat nuzzles into the crook of Natasha’s arm, tiny horns scraping along. No more than a month old, the tiny animal has already picked a favourite. Bucky can’t blame the poor thing; he would’ve made the same choice.

  Bucky pats the goat’s head, smiling over the bleats coming from the small animal. ”Hey buddy,” he says, ”you’ve found the best spot, haven’t you?”

  The goat bleats again, Natasha chuckles quietly. Her hand ghosts against Bucky’s, sending out a electric jolt through Bucky’s hand; up through his arm and further into his entire body. ”This cutie deserves a name. You got something up your sleeve, Barnes?”

  Scratching his stubble, Bucky looks between the small goat and Sam, who’s standing over in the pasture with the older goats. He’s talking with the goats, laughing when they’re trying to steal the food right out of his hands. Sam keeps looking over at the two of them every now and then, lacking discretion. It’s not hard to guess about what Sam’s up to

  He’s a good guy. Wilson. But nearly not stubborn enough to match with the tiny goat in Natasha’s arms.

  ”Not a Wilson, nor Romanoff,” he starts, lips tugging up in a smirk at Natasha’s raised eyebrow, ”you two aren’t stubborn enough. This guy is a Steve through and through. A lot cuter than the original too.”

  Natasha bites back a laugh. Delight’s present in her eyes. Leaning forward, she whispers to the goat. ”мне нравишься больше."

   When she peers over at Bucky again, he’s unable to stop himself from smiling. Her eyes are light, unguarded in a way she’s barely showed around him before. Warms Bucky from the inside out, to be near her when she’s like this.

  ”If this guy’s a Steve, is there a tiny Natasha running around here somewhere too?”

    Bucky snorts, thinking back to the hen that scared him the first night. Not too far away from where they’re sitting beneath the tree in front of the hut, a group of the hens roam around in their search for more food. He doesn’t spot the particular hen from the first night, not to his surprise. The hen in question is probably out somewhere, hiding and biding her time to find a suitable victim to scare.

  He gesture towards the group of hens, gaining that particularly daunting, raised eyebrow from Natasha in return. One that says _”You better have a explanation for this, Barnes.”_ ”When I went to bed my first night here, one of those birds got the upper hand and sneaked up on me. Sat perfectly still on top of my bed, it really got me,” he ducks his head to look at the goat, scratching the new Steve’s head. ”Made me think of you, though. The bird version of you is nearly as sneaky as the original.”

  Hearing about the hen - the sneaky bird version of Natasha - Natasha laughs. A smooth, dry sound lightening her entire face. ”I love hen-me already.” She tilts her head to look at the roaming hens, rays of sunlight dancing across her hair.

  Mesmerising. Every time. A clear, crisp winter morning now when the red is gone. If she’d let him kiss her, he’d do it. But he doesn’t intrude, no, he turns his head away and thinks how lucky he is to even have a shot at being friends with Natasha again after all these years.

  Takes him no more than a second to notice Sam by the fence. The smirk on Sam’s face says more than a million words ever could.

  ”Are you two gonna sit there and let me do all the heavy lifting? This ain’t what I signed up for, Barnes.”

  Bucky throws one last glance over at Natasha, savouring the glimmer in her eyes. He stands, but as he does, his hand ghosts by Natasha’s knee; briefly, with the very tips of his fingers. Nothing about Natasha’s expression changes. The glimmer’s there; lazy smile, everything.

  If his touch means anything to her, she doesn’t show it.

  Sam’s smirk on the other hand, only grows bigger.

  ”Heavy lifting? You’ve got wings, man. If there’s something you need, it’s some heavy lifting,” Bucky pats Sam’s arm across the fence. To no surprise, Sam batters his hand away and points a rather menacing finger in his direction.

  ”Oh you watch it, Barnes. I’m not afraid to hit an old man.” He says one thing, but his eyes says something else. A minimal peek in Natasha’s direction. _Oh boy, we’re gonna talk about this later._

  Bucky huffs out a laugh, trying to keep Sam’s hands away when he senses someone roamingbehind him. One that comes with a touch of roses and something so familiarly fresh; brisk, cold mornings.

  So close Bucky can feel the heat from her body. It takes every ounce of his willpower not to lean back against her. See if he could stay in her arms, if she’d have him.

  ”Let the old man be, Wilson. He’s vintage.”

  He can’t see her smile. He doesn’t have to, he knows it’s there.

  

Sam remains long after Natasha’s excused herself and went back to the capital. Being on the receiving end of Sam’s stares all day, Bucky’s prepared for the impending questioning.

  When it does happen, with Sam clearing his throat, Bucky can’t do anything but smile.

  ”So, Romanoff, huh?” Sam drawls. ”Thought she’d have better taste.”

  Bucky flips him the finger. They’re by the campfire outside the hut, slumped on the ground and listening to some songs on Sam’s phone.

  ”Fuck you, Wilson,” Bucky retorts. He softens instantly, brow furrowing together. ”In fact, if Natalia’s got good taste, I won’t be high up on that list.”

  ”Hey, you’re not _that_ bad,” Sam says, lifting himself up to look at Bucky with something just as soft gracing his features. The usual bite is still there, just not so present; only _soft._ Friendly. ”Actually, you know what? I’m happy for you, dude. She’s.. a, she’s like no one I’ve ever met. Great, but terrifying.”

  Turning his head away, hand in hair, Bucky smiles. A fragile, uncertain thing growing by the second. ”She is, truly. One of a kind,” he stops, taking a breath. He hadn’t told anyone about his past with Natasha. How could he? Steve’s been too wrapped up with his own issues, and he couldn’t expect to be able to drop things like these on Shuri.

  No, sharing this with Sam just felt… _right._

”We used to know each other years ago. Natasha and I,” Bucky breathes, slowly to wait for Sam’s reaction. ”I spent a lot of years in Russia, while I still was the soldier. I trained agents in the Red Room; one of them was Natalia. Out of all the people there, countless and countless of people, she was the only one who treated me like a human being. We both had to pay for it. Ten times over. Ever since, it’s just.. _her_. It’s always been her.”

  Sam’s fully sitting by now, gaping at Bucky. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, raising his hand to scratch at the back of his neck. ”So, wait - like, wow. I did _not_ see that coming. If that’s not baggage, I don’t know what is. Do you remember everything from, what was it - _the Red Room?_ ”

  Bucky pushes himself upwards, leaning heavily on his arm before sitting up altogether. He narrows his eyes, looking over at Sam and contemplating how much he should say. ”Are you sure you wanna hear about this?”

  Sam spreads his arms, encouraging look in his eyes. ”I’ve got all the time in the world, Barnes.”

 

Hours goes by, or no time at all. Bucky talks until there’s nothing left to say, the weight around his heart a little lighter, a little easier to carry. He can’t bring himself to spill every tiny, gory detail about the Red Room, but he tells Sam about Natasha. How he used to love her and does so again, even though it’s different this time around.

  Sam sits, listens and gives him time to finish. No bites; no jokes on Bucky’s expanse. Bucky appreciates it, how Sam doesn’t look at him with pity but with timid understanding. Compassion. He squeezes Bucky’s shoulder, tightly, keeping his hand in place while he ponders for what to say. Bucky could be imagining it, but he’s almost certain there’s something close to wet and glossy in Sam’s eyes.

  ”You know man, whenever I hear about what you’ve been through, it’s just. _Fuck,_ ” Sam removes his hand, standing up so he can pace around for a bit. ”You and Romanoff though, that makes sense. I’m happy for you, dude. Really, but you got to tell her. There’s enough miserable pining when Rogers’ around, don’t need you to join that club as well.”

  Bucky laughs shortly, dragging his hand through his hair. Faint tug at the hairband Natasha lent him. ”It won’t happen. But I don’t know, it’s just - ”

  ”You know, Romanoff’s latin to me. Despite that, even I could see there’s _something_ about her when she’s with you. I’ve got a feeling about these kind of things, Barnes, and I got a good feeling about the two of you.”

  Bucky dismisses Sam with a wave of his hand, fighting himself to hold back a smile. He tries not to take Sam’s words to heart; in the end, what is there to say that it wouldn’t end up a travesty? His memories are finally making sense; for the first time in decades, his life is finally becoming something _real._ Natasha could make everything even better, he’s sure of it, just, how to tell her is something he needs to figure out.

  ”You’re not a complete dick, Wilson,” Bucky says. ”I tend to forget that sometimes.”

  ”Takes one to know one,” Sam retorts without missing a beat. He smiles. ”Make the best of this shot, man. You’ll do great whatever you choose to do.”

 

*~*

 

Bucky sees the bike from afar. How it glides down the hill like no bike he’s ever seen; missing wheels, almost like it’s floating above the ground. He’s in Wakanda, so technology wise, nothing comes much of a shock, but still? Levitating bikes? That’s _something_ else. Reminds him of the flying cars of Stark's Expo in the 40s. 

  Unsure of what to do, Bucky stands by the hut and watches the bike come closer and closer. He tries to make out the driver, but whoever it is, their face is covered by a helmet. Bucky remains by the hut, keeping an eye on the bike until it comes to a halt a few meters away from him.

   This close, it becomes clear who the driver is. Blond hair muzzled from the helmet, one of her black suits in place. As always, she’s beautiful.

  Bucky approaches slowly, lazy smile spreading across his lips. ”Where did you even get _that_?” He gestures to the bike. Which Natasha’s leaning against, gracefully as ever.

  The soft grin sets its claws around Bucky’s heart. It doesn’t match the mischievous glint in her eyes; Bucky’s drawn in, like a fly to a light.

  ”Called in a favour. This baby is ours for the night.”

  They’ve been dancing around each other for weeks. Ever since Bucky’s talk with Sam (and later on, with Steve, who concurred with Sam’s advice of telling Natasha the truth) he’s tried to find the right moment to tell her about what he feels. Finding the right moment, is a much more difficult task than expected.

  The truth lies in his chest, constantly poppingup to the surface. It doesn’t weigh anything, it’s simply there, tugging at his nerves.

  He tilts his head to the side, squinting his eyes. ”Ours?” He tries not to sound hopeful. But then again, that’s what he does.

  ”I’m not parked outside of Rogers’ room now, am I?”

  Heat spreads through his chest, a burning, flickering light that’s bound to leave a sign. He startles out a laugh.

  Natasha smiles wider; showing the tiniest bit of teeth. ”What do you say, James? Wanna go for a ride?”

  Bucky flickers his gaze between the bike and Natasha. This doesn’t feel like all the nights they’ve spent down here together, slowly getting to know each other again. Going somewhere else that isn’t the capital or his hut, that’s.. something _else_. Exciting, even.

  He steps closer, dragging his hand along the handlebar. So strange, so new from the motorbikes they used back in the war. Technology, once again. What a thing.

  Considering what to do, it’s not a hard decision.

  “Okay,” he concludes with a nod. “You can drive this thing, right?”

  “Oh James,” Natasha smiles, patting the seat. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  She says he’s got nothing to worry about, but Bucky can’t help that it feels like he’s got everything to worry about. Yet, he slides in behind her, drawn to her warmth; drawn to everything about her. He slides his arm around her waist, slowly, to give her the time to say no. She doesn’t. What she says, is the exact opposite.

  “Hold on tight.”

 

Natasha starts off slowly. The bike moves smoothly across the ground; no matter how smoothly it glides, Bucky holds onto Natasha; a grip that only grows tighter when the speed increases.

  Wakanda lies in front of them; a painting coming to life in front of their eyes, under their feet. Rolling hills and fields with yellow grass swaying in the wind; packs of gazelles, birds flying high up in the sky.

  The wind tugs at his clothes, his hair. Thinks of the helmet, lying forgotten back outside his hut. He clings to Natasha. The sound of her laugh mixing with the wind.

  A feeling of being more free than he’s been in a very long time. Makes him feel lighter, that feeling. Like he isn’t just moving across the ground on this bike, but flying by his own accord. Free to do whatever he wants to; having the entire world at the very tip of his fingers.

  Bucky wonders if this how Sam feels like when he uses his wings. Stark with his flying suit. If it’s possible to ever feel this light ever again.

  They pass through villages. Freedom fades. Caution takes its place. People Bucky recognises the faces off and in return recognises him. He curls into Natasha a bit more; not to hide, no, but to find strength. Knows he’ll always have a target on his back, draw attention to himself.

  Natasha remains loose in his grip, following the movement of the bike with trained precision. Not saying a word, calming him with her presence alone.

 

It gets easier to breath when they’re out of the villages and cities. Just the two of them and the open fields.

  Natasha takes them down a hill, hair flying around their heads in a mess of blond and brown. “Scream if you want!” she calls out over the wind, the sound of her voice almost drowning in it. “I won’t judge!”

  Her suggestion is absurd. So absurd it’s appealing.

  Bucky straightens himself as much as he dares, letting his head fall back as he lets out a shout that’s long overdue. He laughs when Natasha joins in, louder and brighter than he’s done in months, and he thinks if he could stop time, he’d like to do it right this moment.

  Him and Natasha. On a borrowed hover-bike in the middle of the Wakandan plains. Shouting at the top of their lungs with the sky bleeding red into a sunset taking up what feels like the entire horizon.

  He wonders if this how it is to be happy. Truly happy.

  No matter how he’ll feel in ten minutes when he remembers why he doesn’t this; when he wakes up tonight with a different sort of scream ripping through his throat, he’ll always have _this_.

  Always have this moment with Natasha when he felt truly free. Like he actually deserves the second chance everyone keeps telling him he does.

 

They end up on top of a hill. One with a perfect view of the bleeding sky.

  Bucky’s moved back across the seat in an attempt to give them some space from each other, but Natasha along moved with him. She’s leaning against his chest, the top of her head touching his chin; hair tickling his skin. He doesn’t dare to move. If he does, it feels like she might disappear.

  Neither of them have said anything since they stopped. The light mood has turned into something a bit more somber; a bit more real without the wind drowning out every little sound they make. There’s so much he wants to tell her, so much he knows she’s the only one who possibly could understand where he’s coming from.

  He wants to continue holding her and never let go.

  He wants to tell her that he loves her. What comes out is as far from _that_ truth as possible.

  “I’ll never be a good man. I wake up every night screaming because I dream about the people I’ve killed, how it felt like to crush someone’s throat using my hands. I can pretend to be someone else all I want, living my life out here, but it’ll never take away what I did to all of those people,” he stops, his heart breaking bit by bit when Natasha shifts away from his chest to watch him through dark eyelashes, “I’ll never be the man Steve wants me to be: the one he thinks I was before. Frankly, I’m not even sure that man's ever existed. I want to do the right thing, but what do I do when I don’t even know what the right thing is anymore?”

Natasha’s eyes burns. Green, stronger than the deepest red in the core of a flame. She’s still, one hand right beside Bucky’s knee. He misses her touch already. Misses her, even though she’s right there.

  “You’re Steve’s last link to his old life, just like he’s yours. The two of you’ll always have memories of how everything was before the war, but that doesn’t mean that Steve wants you to be anyone but yourself. You won’t please everyone, James, and that’s just how it is,” she takes a breath, turning her head away from him to stare at the setting sun. “We’re made the same way, you and I. We were both forged into weapons to be used without having a will of our own. We’ve fought and killed enough people that our hands will never be clean of all the blood, but that shouldn’t stop either of us from trying to be the people we want to be. I’ve fought with tooth and nail for my second chance, even though I first didn’t think I’d ever deserve one. How could someone like me, who’s killed people for a living for so many years, possibly deserve a chance at making my own decisions? This life I’ve built for myself may not be what I dreamed of years ago, or one I’ll ever be completely free from, but it’s _my_ life. One I’ve made for myself with the shitty hand life’s given me, away from the KBG and the Red Room.

  You’ve just got your mind back. You’ve just begun at making a life for yourself. No one asks you to be a good man and join the fight or do anything for anyone but yourself. No one asks you to be anything but _free_.”

  She takes Bucky’s hand between both of her own, squeezing it. Her head’s lowered slightly now, gaze focused on their hands. Unaware of the tears rolling down Bucky’s cheeks, how he stopped fighting them minutes ago.

  “It may seem impossible now, to ever reach a point in time when it doesn’t feel like all of this is too good to be true, but years from now, it may not seem so absurd anymore. You’ll struggle, I do too, but it’s a part of coming to terms with who you are. Accepting what you’ve done and how it’ll always be a part of you. No matter what you’ve done, this is your chance of being who you want to be. Not who Steve wants you to be, or Wilson, or me, or anyone. Only who _you_ want to be.”

   Green. Green. _Green._

When she meets his gaze, all he can think of is green. Smears of tears around the edges, how he sees the same pain nestled like a thorn in his heart mirrored in hers as well. Her words does that to him, breaks him apart and mends him together again.

  He tugs at her hands, wants her to come closer, and she wraps herself around him in a way that consumes him whole. Pressing his head down, face buried against her shoulder, he lets himself go until there’s no tears left to cry.

  “Natalia, I -” he croaks in a muffled whimper. “I -”

  “I know,” she whispers. Her lips touch the top of his head, soft as a feather. “I know.”

 

Wrapped in Natasha’s arms, Bucky loses track of time. Hours, days could’ve passed and it wouldn’t have mattered. The only thing he cares about has her arms locked around him, her chin against his hair.

  He feels her move against him, taking something out of her pocket. The familiar sound of her headphones clicking together before one of the tiny things slips into his ear. Bucky doesn’t protest, letting her do as she pleases while he closes his eyes, breathes in her scent.

  A soft guitar. A woman’s voice he recognises from one of the countless nights they’ve spent together, sitting outside his hut.

  “Fleetwood Mac,” he breathes, ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. His eyes hurt, remains of tears drying on his cheeks.”Landslide?”

  Natasha strokes his hair. Fingers tugging at the knots, carefully and ever so gently. “Yeah,” she says, just as quiet. “Landslide.”

   Bucky tightens his grip around her waist. He presses closer until there’s no space left to claim. Doubt crawls inside of him, a gooey, black mess that leaves a sour taste in his mouth. This was the first step. He has so many more to take before he’s where he wants to be.

  He still needs to tell her about what he feels.

  But not tonight.

 

“Nat, I.. thanks for tonight. It was.. Good. To talk to someone about, everything. I had a great time.”

  Natasha smiles, a soft little thing that lights up the night around them. She’s leaning against the bike while Bucky’s standing. Right back where they started. “So did I.”

  She’s going to leave. Everything have shifted between them, and she’s still going to leave for the night. After all, Bucky’s told her a lot, but not the thing he thinks could make her stay.

  He raises his hand, lets his fingers caress her cheek. The touch is light, packed with the weight of everything he yet has to say. The truth that’s the hardest to say is the one that means the most. “Goodnight, Natalia.”

  Natasha’s eyelids flutter when he removes his hand. She doesn’t catch it, only turns away to get back up on the bike again. Her eyes are a little bigger, burning a little bit brighter when their eyes lock again. “Goodnight, James.”

 

*~*

 

Ganiru clicks his fingers together. He doesn’t say anything, just waits for Bucky to get ready.

  Bucky throws the tea back in a few eager gulps. Avoidance only gets you so far; he came to the conclusion the night before, once he came back from his ride with Natasha. He wants to talk about the Winter Soldier: what he _did._

Finding the words to start, that’s the tricky part.

  He places the cup down on the table, exhaling slowly.

  Beginning is the hardest part. Always has been, always will be.

  ”I think I’m ready to talk about the Winter Soldier. About what I’ve done.”

  Ganiru nods. No surprise graces his features. He expected this outcome, patiently waiting and encouraging until Bucky finally felt comfortable enough to share anything.

  ”Take it in your own pace, James. Nothing leaves these four walls.”

  Too soft cushions. Bucky sinks down. He shifts, trying to find a good position. Doesn’t work; he’s too on edge, too frightened yet excited to tell the truth.

  Bucky wants to talk about it. Ganiru wants him to talk about it.

  So.. that’s what he does.

  From the beginning. To the end.

 

*~*

 

As Bucky’s about to leave, Ganiru stops him by the door. His grip around Bucky’s shoulder is light. Comforting.

  Bucky doesn’t pull away.

  ”I understand how tough this must’ve been for you, James. All I want to say is that you’ve followed orders; done horrible things against your will and suffered the consequences time and time again. It’s over now. What you’ve done, it’ll always be a part of who you, as horrible as that might be, but it doesn’t have to define your future.”

  Ganiru offers him a sad smile. ”No one deserves what happened to you. But what I see in front of me is not a man who’s given up, no, I see a man who’s finding his place in the world. A man coming to terms with his past and looking forward instead of looking back.”

  Listening to Ganiru, Bucky doesn’t know what to feel. Relief about the sharing the truth once more; humility for Ganiru’s belief in him. One both Wilson and Natasha shares. Belief he’s not had in himself in a long, long time.

  ”Thank you,” Bucky finally says, voice thick,” for giving me a chance.”

 

*~*

 

Bucky sleeps soundly through the night.

  It’s the first time in years.

 

*~*

 

Natasha’s been out with Steve and the others on a mission. Only a few messages have been sent while they’ve been away; encrypted updates, estimated time when they’re due to come back, nothing withholding any sort of personal information.

  After the trip out with the hover-bike, things have changed. He can’t stop thinking about Natasha, what she told him and how close he’d been to ask her if he could kiss her. She’d been a constant buzz in his head for quite some time now, a warm, nice feeling that took his breath away, but it hadn’t been like this. Not since way back, in the Red Room.

  He knows he needs to tell her. Make peace with these feelings if she doesn’t feel the same way, or embrace them full-heartedly if she does. But the mere thought of coming clean, telling her how he feels, it’s terrifying.

  If he loses her.. he’ll lose a lot more than his heart; someone he can talk to about the ugliest things he’s done - who understands, without the underlying judgement that comes with so many others. They’ve had similar journeys: being used as weapons, carrying out missions and killing when it became necessary. Natasha knows _him:_ the person he tries to be, but also the person he’s trying to leave behind and finally make peace with.

  He can’t lose her. Not _again._

 

Everything changes the night she comes back.

  Bucky’s leaning against the tree, tablet resting against his thigh. One of the portable lights stand on the grass next to him, a soft glow mixing with the bright images on his screen. Shuri’s downloaded some new movies for him to watch: he finished Star Wars the other week, so naturally Shuri ordered him to go through the Star Trek movies as well. All of them are impressive, but he can’t help but wonder how Shuri’s tech would match with what they have in the movies.

  He’s halfway through the second movie when he notices someone walking down the hill. Pausing the film, he puts the tablet aside and straightens up to see who the newcomer is.

  One look at the blond hair and black suit is all he need. He shoots right up, a electrifying warmth spreading through his limbs like a wildfire. A week since he last saw her. Feels a lot longer.

  Natasha’s a whirlwind, prowling through the grass and over to him with determination. Dirty suit, funky hair. A bruise on her jaw; cut along the neck. His chest tightens with worry, yet he can’t look away from the fire in her eyes. Fire and something so familiarly uncertain that has nothing to do with the injuries.

  ”Natalia -”

  Natasha snaps her hand up. She stops right in front of him; every ounce of her determination pours out of her, leaving something raw and glistering behind _._ There’s something about the way she stands that makes her feel _smaller._ Full with doubt.

  She opens her mouth, but closes it again.

  ”Tasha, what’s wrong?” Bucky tries again, softer. He can’t shake the feeling that he’s missing something here; like he’s thrown straight into the middle of a conversation he doesn’t remember them ever having.

  Natasha crosses her arms over her chest, almost defensively. ”What are we, James?”

  That’s.. _not_ what he expected. He’s so taken aback that he can’t do anything but blink at her, eyes wide. Mouth drier than the Sahara desert, he opens and closes it repeatedly in search for the right words.

  In the end, what he comes up with is nowhere close to what he wants to say.

  ”Wh..what do you mean?”

  Natasha moves closer. They’re in each others space; he can smell the faint bloom of her perfume, salt and grit from her suit. Hair frizzy around the tips, he wants to drag his fingers through the blond strands and hold her.

  If it was hard to look away from her before, it’s impossible to do it now when he can count the eyelashes and lose himself in the mesmerising green of her eyes. She meets his gaze head-on. Grounding him. Always keeping him where he needs to be.

  When she exhales, it’s trembling. ”What are we to each other, James? Friends? Something else?” She breaks eye-contact, steps away with her back turned against him.

  Bucky dares not to breath nor to hope. His voice is hoarse when he finally gets something out. ”What do you want us to be?” If he could only dare himself to step closer. They’re so close he can practically touch her, yet it feels like an ocean between them.

  Natasha stares off into the surrounding night, still with her back against him. ”We have history. Something we shared a long time ago. I want us to be like that again. Without all the bad: the restrictions - the obligations. Without the Red Room. These last few months have proved that we still work together, how we’ve always worked so well together. Whenever I’m not with you, I can’t seem to get you out of my head. I want to be with you, James,” she finally turns around, eyes blazing. Bucky’s knees turn weak, aware of every inch between them, ”correct me if I’m wrong, but I’ve gotten the feeling you want to be with me too.”

  Since Bucky got out of cryo, there’s been a few times where he’s left completely speechless. The first time Shuri showed him some of her tech; the first sunrise he saw over the buildings in the capital; Natasha, when she laughed loud and bright, and now this, when she’s standing in front of him, with her intentions written clear as day in her eyes.

  What he feels, she feels it _too._

Every nerve stands on end. He breathes out shallowly, every ounce of air not being enough. ”God, _Tasha.”_ Her name is a plea on his lips.

  Dragging his hand through his hair, Bucky searches after her gaze and finds it instantly. The intensity in her eyes knocks him down. The only thing he can think of is her. ”Please, can I - can I kiss you?”

  Seconds. Natasha closes the distance between them in a matter of seconds; launching herself forward with one sole focus. Him. Her arms latch onto his neck, suit touching his skin and gloved fingers entwining with his hair. He barely manages to catch her before their lips meet, fire against fire, arm snaked around her waist.

  Natasha’s everywhere. Her touches leave burns in their wake, fingers free from calculations and restrain travelling up and down along his neck, tugging at his hair; she presses closer until there’s nothing left between them but their clothes.

  His head is bent downwards to meet her lips. Bucky’s got a few inches on her: normally, he doesn’t think too much about it since he knows what she’s capable of, but now it’s on the verge of driving him insane. She’s a force pressing upwards, against him. He’s powerless to do anything but follow her command with pleas dripping from his lips, breathed into her mouth.

  They move backwards on her cue. She tugs at him, asking for him to follow. He does. Desperate for more; to be as close as he possibly can, for as long as possible. Stumbling inside. Entangled. So unwilling to part.

  Bucky can think of one thing.

  Natasha. Natasha. _Natasha._

The Red Room is a fleeting memory. Everything they did then - what they shared - pales compared to _this._ They were in love once. What Bucky feels now, he’s heading in the same direction.

  His hand’s spread across the small of her back. Every move she does sends a tidal wave of heat through his fingers. The fabric of her suit is too much. Everything is _too_ _much._

Before Bucky gets a grip on their surroundings, Natasha’s guided them over to the bed. He stumbles backwards, hitting the covers with a grunted ”hpmf” that quickly turns into something short of a dazed groan as he stares up at her.

  Natasha, with the blond hair in a mess around her face, lips slightly swollen from all of their kisses, pupils blown wide. Like this, she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. A blazing fire trailing kisses across exposed skin as she pushes at Bucky’s shirt; teeth scraping over sensitive skin, climbing up, up, up.

  Bucky curls his hand around her chin and tugs her upwards enough to meet her in a kiss, groaning against her mouth when teeth sinks into his bottom lip. He’s spinning. Spinning. Spinning. And he can only think about her; how she feels, her lips and the taste on her tongue.

  He tries to find a wrinkle in Natasha’s suit, somewhere he can pull it off, but the damn thing sits tight enough he can’t be sure it’s not glued onto her skin directly. Both his shirt and the piece of fabric he shields his scarred shoulder with are gone down onto the floor; he doesn’t feel uncomfortable under her heated gaze, but letting her see the place where his arm used to be - _all_ of his scars, makes him hyper-aware of the shifts in her mood and body language.

  Breathing roughly through his nose, he turns his head to the side and away from all of the deep green. If she’s disgusted by the scars, how the skin still doesn’t look right after all this time, he doesn’t want to see it.

  Eyelids flutter close. Breath hitches in his throat.

  All thanks to Natasha’s touch. Gentle fingers move along the line of his scars; the ones HYDRA gave him, back when he first got his metal arm. They’ll never heal properly, a mess of bumpy lines and spots of reddish, greying skin. She touches the bare outline of the scars.

  Fingernail tapping against the stump. _Clink_ . _Clink_.

  Bucky wants to touch her cheek; drag his lips down her neck, feel the beat of her heart.

  ”May I?”

  Bucky opens his eyes. Natasha’s lips are puffy; eyes close to dangerously soft in a way Bucky’s not used to. He melts into it, nodding when he can’t find his voice. His eyelids close as soon as her lips touch the scarred skin by the stump. Her lips trails along, soft presses that burns as much as they tingle.

  For a moment, he feels whole. Nothing but Natasha exists; she’s the only thing Bucky can feel, smell, touch, _everything._ How firm and warm she is, how every kiss sends him closer to the edge.

  Beautiful. Just as deadly.

  When Bucky meets her lips again, he kisses her with a budding need. He strokes his hand down along her back, over her spine; holding her closer, even when she settles more firmly on top of his thighs. A welcomed addition; one he won’t grow tired of.

  Natasha guides his hand to the zipper on the back of the suit, letting Bucky tug it down while she works on the belt, straps and weapons attached to the suit. She’s pulled back, lips breaking apart in a wet sound. Fabric warm and smooth between Bucky’s fingers; he yanks it down to expose what’s hiding underneath. Pale skin. Scars. Some newer than others.

  She’s beautiful in a way that makes it hard to breathe properly.

  Bucky works on the bra next, almost clumsily trying to unhinge the damn thing while he leaves sloppy kisses along Natasha’s throat; down over her chest. The sweet sounds she makes Bucky’s heart stutter. She’s worth everything.

  Only for a moment, Natasha pulls away from him, leaving some space left in between. She removes what’s left of the suit with ease. Bucky sits up, tracing his hand along her side, stopping over a bullet wound above her waist. The skin isn’t smooth there. Roughened. Discoloured.

  ”The Winter Soldier gave me that in Iran a few years ago.”

     Bucky stops. Rewinds, trying to understand what she’s saying. A bitter taste fills his mouth, the moment slipping into something a lot more real in a way that tears him apart inside.

  He shot her. He _fucking shot her._

  He finds his voice, swallowing down specks of black. So much guilt.

  ”I did…” he says around the stone in his throat, unable to look away from the discoloured scar. He thinks of sand coloured red by blood; unbearable heat, screams that won’t stop. He’s fought her more than once; every time could’ve been the last, where he put an end to her for good. ”Fuck, Tasha,” his voice is barely louder than a whisper, a desperate plea.

  A pair of warm hands cups around his face and forces him to tear his gaze away from the scar, instead finding hardened green staring straight into his own. He weakens under her gaze, clinging to her because she’s _here - alive. Alive. Alive._

”You shot me. It hurt like a bitch. There’s nothing you can do to change that,” she leans in to kiss his forehead and he lets her. He fights back tears, so overwhelmed with emotions he trembles against her. ”I don’t hold it against you, James. You were working for HYDRA, still a weapon to be used and not the _real_ you. I got in your way and paid the price. I’ve got a scar Clint gave me on my thigh; countless others from people I care about all over my body, some smaller than others. You gave me a scar, that’s all.”

  Their foreheads touch. He breathes her in, nose ghosting along the line of her throat, every breath shaky and nearly not enough. Fingers touch the scar, thinks of how it could’ve been so very different, but she’s there to drag him out of his head.

  ”I know you,” she whispers, pressing kisses to his hair. ”I know you, I know you, I know you.”

     Natasha’s still on top of him, hovering above him. He tugs her down, shifts her in place and kisses her just to know that she’s real; right there with him.

  The kiss is slow at first. Shared breaths, his tongue slipping into her mouth and savouring the sound she makes when he tugs her closer. He’s still trembling, desperate to feel everything at once. She mirrors his desperation with her own: the two of them clinging together like two pieces of the same puzzle.

  He lowers her down and kisses his way down across every piece of skin he can find. Down her neck, over her breasts and navel. The scar he gave her feels rough against his lips, and in a distant part of himself he hopes his kisses will make it go away somehow. It doesn’t.

  The scar is a part of her. Like every scar of his own are parts of him.

  He presses his lips once more to the scar before travelling even further down.

  

Bucky thinks that for every new side of Natasha he sees, he finds each more beautiful than the last. He knows he won’t be able to pick a favourite even if he tried, but having her like this, when she breathes his name like a plea and with her fingers deeply entwined with his hair, his lips barely inches away from her own, is worth everything.

  Natasha urges him on, kisses him and holds him close enough for Bucky to lose himself completely.

  When she falls asleep with her head on his shoulder, fingers spread over his stump, Bucky thinks he’s found home. 

 

*~*

 

When Bucky wakes up that night, he doesn't wake up alone.

 

*~*

 

Years have past since the Red Room.

 He loved her then. Grey mornings. Crackling fire. Freshly fallen snow.

  He loves her now. Starry nights. Soft touches. A prickling warmth in the pit of his stomach.

  It’s not the same. Then again, neither are them.

 

Bucky glances at Natasha. She’s leaning against the hut, thin blanket draped across her shoulders. Blond hair disheveled around her face, pale as the stars up in the sky.

  He sneaks his arm around her shoulders and tugs her close, fingers spreading over her arm. The blanket is soft against his fingertips, warmth of her body radiating through the fabric. Locks of hair tickles his skin, she uses his shoulder as a headrest.

  He doesn’t love many things. Not anymore. But _god_ , he loves her.

  

*~*

 

As life’s proven over and over again, there’ll always be another fight.

  Two years after Siberia; 1,5 years after he got out of cryo, T’Challa comes with the impending fight heavy on his shoulders. He’s not alone, surrounded by members of his guard and the general over the Dora Milaje, Okoye, who’s Bucky spared with a few times.

  One of the guards carries a box. Even from afar, Bucky knows what’ll be in it.

  He keeps working, lifting hay to trough for his goats until he can’t ignore the ensemble of guards and royalty anymore. Wiping the dirt on his trousers, he trails his eyes along the group of people and feels his heart sink in his chest. He hasn’t heard anything from Steve, Nat or Sam in more than a week. Last thing he heard was about some trouble with Wanda, sent in a ridiculously cryptic message by Sam.

  Bucky stopped worrying months ago. Yet, seeing the king here with all of the guards, with an almost apologetic sadness gracing his features, Bucky’s bound to understand that something isn’t right.

  ”Your highness,” he says with a small nod, which T’Challa acknowledges with a faint nod of his own.

  ”Mr Barnes.” The guard with the box places it on Bucky’s cart. It opens swiftly with a few clicks, revealing the slick, metallic arm underneath. The metal is darker than Bucky’s old arm; a dark grey with specks of light, almost golden like features spread all over. Discreet, yet so obviously one of Shuri’s creations that it brings Bucky to mutter out ”of course” under his breath.

  He remains silent for a few seconds, simply gazing at the arm. It should make him feel _something -_ not this numbness, exhaustion over a fight he doesn’t even know the details of yet. He steps closer to the cart, stiff and slow.

  ”Where’s the fight?” Bucky asks and looks back up at the king.

  The same sadness from before remains in T’Challa’s eyes. ”On it’s way.”

  Bucky nods. He looks down at the arm again; how the piece of metal is a reminder of a life he didn’t choose for himself, one bound to be lived through fights and war. The arm is more than an arm: it’s a weapon. The skin, muscles, around his stump aches; a vague memory of how it felt when Stark shot his arm off in Siberia, how it felt like to have his metallic fingers around someone’s throat and squeezing until there was no life left.

  The new arm is a real masterpiece in technical engineering. He can’t bring himself to appreciate it.

  ”Shuri’ll help you with the arm. I’m sorry it’s come to this, Mr Barnes, but we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

  Bucky throws a look back at his hut over his shoulder. His home. All the days he’s spent taking care of the animals, working until his limbs pleasantly ached; nights he spent with Steve and Sam, in the light of the fire, talking and laughing until a new day was upon them again; how he’s spent almost every night of the last four months with Natasha at his side after watching the stars together, him growing used to having her around.

  He’ll leave it behind. With the arm, this part of his life is a closed chapter. He touches the metal, smooth and cold beneath his fingertips. ”Call me Bucky, your highness. What’re we up against?”

  T’Challa turns away, glancing up at the sky. Full with worry and fierce determination. ”Tony Stark’s missing. The Captain and the others are on their way back here. Our time is officially up. The end of the world is upon us.”

 

*~*

 

As glad Bucky is about Shuri being the one in charge of attaching his new arm, it’s still a painful process. The metal attached to his body, the stump left from Siberia, works as a shoulder made of flesh and bone; with every little irk, it sends pulses of pain through him. Some he can handle without showing his discomfort, other makes him grit his teeth together.

  Shuri removes the old stump entirely and fastens the new arm, shoulder and everything, in its place. A few hours passes at most, but it feels like Bucky might’ve just spent a lifetime lying on the operation table with sharp objects poking and prodding against his scarred skin.

  He’s grown so used to not have the other arm that it feels _wrong_ almost when he clenches and unclenches his new fingers; smooth, darkish grey metal staring back up at him, obeying his every command. It’s wrong, but at the same time it’s _right._ There’s no star this time; this arm is under his control, as is his mind. He decides about his own fate now.

  Slowly, he stretches out the arm to it’s full length. Every little detail a true work of art. He bends it back, uses it hoist himself upwards with ease. Brings a tiny smile to his face, even. One he shoots Shuri as well.

  ”Thank you,” he says. He’s surprised when he knows that he actually means it. ”I couldn’t have asked for anything better than this.”

  Shuri dismisses him with a wave. ”Take down a lot of baddies and we’ll be even.”

 

His old room looks the same. What little he owned he brought to the hut with Steve and Sam months ago; it’s a shell of a room, but it’s still _his_ in a way. He takes another shower, simply standing there under the stream and finding comfort in how nice it feels.

  The armour fits perfectly. A second skin of dark brown, hardened leather and hidden plates of a smooth sort of metal that weighs barely anything. Slightly different from his Winter Soldier get-up, but not by much. Still, he prefers this over the old one. Even though he’s never asked Shuri to update it, she must’ve worked on the armour along with the new arm. How will he ever be able to repay her, really?

  When he’s all geared up, only the gun remains on top of the bed. Natasha’s gun. The one he got out of the Quinjet when Steve and him went to Siberia.

  She doesn’t know he has it. Not that he expects her to react badly and want it back, more of a raised eyebrow and glint in her eyes. He hoisters the gun over his shoulder, settling against his back with a familiar weight. Pockets full of extra packs of ammo.

  He’s as ready as he can be.

 

The landing pad is crowded when Bucky gets there. He spots Steve and T’Challa instantly, then Natasha and Sam. Maximoff. People he doesn’t remember the names of; some he’s never seen before.

  His heart jolts over seeing Natasha again, weeks apart only makes him miss her more.

  He wants to reach out and kiss her. Hold her close, if only for a moment, before the world ends.

  Bucky hears the end of the conversation: T’Challa going through what armies they have at their disposal, going through tribe after tribe. The king gestures towards Bucky with a ”and -” to let Bucky continue, all with barely contained smile over the reactions from the others.

  ”A semi-stable 100 year old man,” Bucky finishes. He basks in their smiles, lets Steve pull him in for a quick hug while he meets Natasha’s gaze over Steve’s shoulder. Where there was sadness to be found in Steve, beneath the smile he gave him, Natasha is fond with a tug of her lips that’s just for him. He wants to bask in it, savour every affectionate glance she sends his way, but he can’t ignore the tension in Steve. How some of it seems to come from seeing Bucky again, with a new arm. The rest though, that’s all thanks to Stark. The impending fight. That much Bucky’s sure of.

  ”It’s good to see you all again,” he says and means it.

  ”How you’ve been, Buck?” Steve’s hand remains on Bucky’s shoulder, squeezing.

  ”Not too bad for the end of the world,” Bucky even manages to smile. He pats Steve’s elbow lightly and excuses himself, meanwhile T’Challa gestures that they should follow him inside to discuss where to go from here.

  Bucky falls into step next to Natasha. ”Tasha.”

  ”James,” she says. Her hand curls around his neck, nudging his head to the side and he complies by leaning down further to catch her lips in a brief kiss. ”Hi,” she smiles delightfully when they break apart.

  ”Hi,” Bucky repeats, smile just as soft. ”How was the mission?”

  ”Long. Pissed off some aliens,” Natasha wrinkles her nose, ”I get a feeling they’re not going to forgive and forget that easily.” They’re surrounded by people, following T’Challa and his guards into the palace. Yet, it feels like they’re the only people there.

  ”All of you are terrible at making friends,” Bucky says dryly.

  With all of the skill of a trained assassin, she manages to get her hand near enough to pinch Bucky’s side without him noticing until the damage was done. He batters her hand away, only to end up with her fingers smoothly entwining with his own. ”You spend all of your time hanging out with goats, so come back and talk when you’ve stood face to face with an alien and seen how friendly they tend to be.”

  ”Fair enough. I’ll take photos to prove it.”

  She huffs out a laugh, the same fondness still shining bright in her eyes. She strokes her thumb along the metal of Bucky’s new hand, the tenderness of her touch having every nerve on edge. ”So, new arm?”

  Bucky holds onto her hand tighter. ”New arm.”

  

  *~*

 

 There’s newcomers.

  Three in total. Two which Bucky vaguely recognises from the airport fight in Leipzig years ago. One he doesn’t.

  The android (Vision, he thinks, the one Wanda’s been sneaking off with?) is not someone you forget that easily, with the red, constructed skin and the yellow, glimmering stone on his forehead; the other one, the colonel that’s called Rhodes (also goes by James, there’s two of them now) Bucky only remembers the voice of. How one of the fliers, the grey one, spoke the same way.

  The third man, he doesn’t know. He’s short, with greyish, dark hair and defensiveness to his posture. Bucky’s not blind to the glances the man shoots in Natasha’s direction.

  ”Bruce Banner,” the man introduces himself, even going as far as shaking Bucky’s hand on their way over to Shuri’s lab. ”I don’t think we’ve met, right?” Banner? That _does_ explain a lot.

  ”Bucky Barnes,” Bucky replies. ”I’ve heard you’re a mad genius.”

  Bruce rubs at his neck, head bent downwards. He’s uncertain, nervous when he looks back up again. ”I, yeah, I guess. Amongst other things,” he tries to smile, but it comes out frayed around the edges, ”I’ve heard you’re a mean son of a bitch with a gun.”

  That brings Bucky to snort. He peeks at Natasha, the pleased smile plastered over her lips the only evidence he needs. It doesn’t take a genius to know _who_ gave Bruce that impression of him. ”Amongst other things.”

  Still, Bucky likes him already.

 

”So, Bruce’s here.”

  Natasha eyes him suspiciously, traces of amusement still lingering in the way she raises an delicate brow. ”He is. We had a good talk on the way over here. Did you know he’s dating Thor? God of Thunder? It’s cute, I’m glad he’s found someone that makes him happy.”

  Bucky blinks. Did she just say God of Thunder? As in an _actual_ god? ”He’s dating _who_ now?”

  He’ll never stop being surprised over the kind of people his loved ones are friends with.

 

*~*

 

The sun is blazing up in the sky. Paints the scene in warm rays of light; it doesn’t fit for the end of the world, not in the slightest, but it’s a reminder of where they are. If there’s any country in the world that can take on an alien army and come out on the winning side, it’s Wakanda.

  Bucky hates that these people that have shown him nothing but kindness are the ones that’ll have to protect the rest of the world. Proud people that would lay down their lives to keep their country and their loved ones safe. Bucky was never one of those people. Not fully, anyway. He never asked to go to war, it was never a part of the life he planned for himself; unlike Steve, who fought to be sent to the front and beat nazis.

  No country truly feels like home to him anymore. Though, he hasn’t had a place long enough to call _home_ for god knows how long. America is nothing but a bleeding memory, he’s not sure he can ever set foot there again. He’ll fight selfishly; to protect his friends, loved ones, and every single person in Wakanda that never asked for this war.

  They have a plan. Shuri needs time to remove the Mind stone from Vision so Maximoff can destroy it. Save Vision’s life and prevent Thanos from getting his hands on all of the stones. The rest of them will be the distraction; prevent the armies of hell (or, at least from _space._ As if life isn’t weird enough as it is already _)_ to reach Shuri and Vision. Good thing Bucky’s always been good with a gun, because if either of those monsters lay a finger on any of his friends, he’ll show no mercy.

  He loads the gun, unlocks the safety and cocks it against his shoulder. Steve, T’Challa and Natasha walks down the field, towards where the barrier around the city ends. The crackling sound of electricity comes from above, the barrier glimmering a soft blue and burning anything that touches it.

  Bucky loves this place. He really do.

  Minutes pass before the trio leaves the aliens by the barrier to return to the others. Nothing indicates that the invaders surrendered willingly - truly, why would they when they’re the ones clearly outnumbering T’Challa’s forces by a mile? The odds have never been in their favour, and they’ve come out on top more times than one. Maybe, just maybe, this will be another one of those times.

  ”They surrender?” he asks once Steve’s back at his side, T’Challa and Nat in tow. Chants come from the Jabari leader, M’Baku, and T’Challa: loud, powerful sounds the soldiers join in and repeat, stomping and some hitting their weapons against the ground.

  Steve snorts bitterly, squinting down at the barrier. ”Not exactly.”

  ”What a surprise,” Bucky comments. He glances to his side, rueful smile in place when he notices Steve and Natasha both looking at him. Steve shakes his head, glint of amusement in his eyes for the briefest moment before it goes back to the focused, tensed look he’s had since the moment Bucky saw him by the Quinjet hours ago. Natasha is rougher out here, hard lines and a viciousness no one wants to be on the receiving end of; looking at him though, something softens in the green of her eyes and turns into a glimpse of the constant amusement she sports when they’re on their own.

  He thinks about how this could be the last time he sees either of them. In an hour or ten minutes, they could all be dead. So much he left he hasn’t said nor done yet. Not to Steve or Sam. Or Natasha.

  Optimistic thinking isn’t his strong suit. But, he needs to believe that there’ll be time.

  There’ll always be time.

 

The barrier opens and with it, all hell breaks loose. Steve (always throwing himself right at the danger, that one) and T’Challa meet the hoard of the invaders head on, taking down a bunch of the weird, dog-like creatures before the others have even reached halfway. Bucky’s in no hurry to get to the bastards, he keeps up with Natasha and a branch of T’Challa’s warriors, Okoye front and centre.

  ”See you’re using one of my guns,” Natasha calls out over the shrill of the ongoing fight, aliens burning against the barrier and screaming. She sounds barely out of breath, both parts of her fighting stick ready in her hands.

  Snorting, Bucky tightens the grip around the gun. He’s kept it with him since Siberia, when he came across it in her storage on the quinjet. ”I trust your judgement when it comes to these sort of things.”

  Their eyes meet, and Bucky thinks he can see all of those things he’s left unsaid staring back at him. A warmth settles in the pit of his stomach, that she’s right there with him at the end of the world. He’s got so much to fight for; so much he can _lose._

”Don’t die on me, Barnes,” she calls.

   _I love you._

  ”Right back at you, Tasha,” he answers.

   _I love you too._

 

They’re outnumbered. By a lot.

  He shoots, punches and kicks his way through the masses; every alien worse than the one before. This life could be crazy, that much he understood from the stories Steve’s told him, but he never suspected he’d end up fighting aliens on a field in Wakanda.

  At first, things seems to go in their favour. T’Challa’s warriors are the best there is. Yet, not even they can match the ferocity and lack of fear for their own survival that the aliens possesses.

  Too many. Too many aliens alive and fighting; too many bodies from their side littering the ground.

  Steve’s somewhere ahead of him. After running off in the beginning, Bucky’s only caught glimpses of his friend here and there while hearing him bark out commands over the comm lines.

  Sam’s up in the air with War Machine - Rhodes, the _other_ James; the only ones he’s seen more than a second here and there during the fight. They’re bickering back and forth, one streak of glimmering metal and one stain of black and red soaring through the air like projectiles; it’s a welcomed change from the tension in Steve’s voice, but not enough to dim the increasing sense of despair building in Bucky’s chest.

  Natasha’s off somewhere to the side, along with M’Baku and Okoye.

  They’re all being pushed back over the field, inch by inch.

  That’s when the machines come.

 

Bucky ducks to the side, weapon in hand while he curses loudly. The machine is bigger than a truck,  digging deep into the earth and sending grass and rocks flying everywhere.

  He rolls out of the way with no more than seconds to spare. Some of the aliens aren’t as lucky; blood and bones raining across the field in all it’s morbidity. Spitting out dirt, Bucky gets back up on his feet in time to notice a speck of red flying across the sky from the palace.

  It takes another second for the speck of red to turn into a being. A girl, wearing a red coat. Huh. The Maximoff girl is full of surprises, then.

  ”That might as well happen,” he mutters to himself, ghost of a smile across his lips, when Wanda throws one of the machines into the others. Sends the ground shaking, even more dirt flying around all over the place.

  One less thing to worry about.

 

A man with a big axe, a raccoon and a tree comes from the sky, surrounded in bright light.

  Bucky’s in the middle of punching an alien with the end of his gun, to catch a moment to reload the gun properly. He catches how the man with the axe jumps up followed by clear lightning bolts crackling through the air, and he hopes - _prays_ that the lightning man is on their side.

  Banner is over the moon about the arrival of the newcomers, so Bucky takes it as a sign that they’re some much needed support. Maybe this man is the God of Thunder Natasha spoke of earlier. Would make sense if that was the case, at least.

  Might as well just be the craziest thing he’s seen all day, but Bucky’s not one to complain about finding help in the strangest of places. He slams the gun down hard enough to crack the skull of yet another alien, and thinks men that controls lightning might as well happen.

 

The raccoon can talk. And shoot a gun like a maniac.

  Bucky doesn’t know how he got here, but he’s right beside the guy and they’re surrounded by another wave of aliens. So, in a moment driven by sheer impulse, Bucky takes a hold of the raccoon’s armour and lifts him off the ground.

  They spin around in a circle, guns blazing; the raccoon keeps laughing, as if he’s enjoying all of this, and Bucky’s happy to be on the same side as this eccentric, murderous animal. When did animals even begin to speak in the first place?

  ”How much for the gun?” the raccoon asks once Bucky’s placed him on the ground again, reloading his own gun.

  Bucky shoots him a bemused glance. ”My girlfriend’s gun is not for sale.”

  ”How much for the arm?” the raccoon continues, persistent as ever.

  Bucky doesn’t even answer, only shoots him another bemused look. As he runs off, he can swear how the raccoon mutters how he’ll try to get his arm one way or another. It’s one of those moments where Bucky can’t tell if this truly is what his life has come to now, or if this isn’t one, long feverish dream he’s stuck in and won’t wake up from. Both seems equally possible. How else could he explain a raccoon trying to make him sell him his arm? It doesn’t make sense!

  Yet, if they win…

  Once the war is over, he’ll hand the raccoon his arm personally.

 

Something is wrong with Vision.

  Shuri was attacked; alive, but she didn’t finish removing the stone. The desperation in her voice, sheer and utter anguish over her failure, is enough for Bucky to lose some of the hope he’s clung to. Vision is out there in the forest; the last thing standing between them and the titan. If Shuri couldn’t remove the stone, what other option did they have that didn’t end up with someone dying? How many more lives could they spare for the greater good of the universe? Blood paints the field red and black, aliens and humans alike.

  Bucky heads for the trees. Steve’s in there somewhere. Trying to save Vision. He’s got to help them. Somehow.

 

Thanos’ arrival changes the air. It’s as if the air itself revolves around the titan, all energy moving towards the large, purple man with the golden gauntlet glistering in the sunlight.

  Bucky launches at him. He barely gets to take a few steps, the titan uses the gauntlet and throws him aside like he was made of feathers. A purple force field that sends him flying, into the bushes and away from the battle. He lands roughly on top of the gun, grunting at how everything aches inside of him. Adrenaline pours out of him, he grits his teeth and rises to his feet; he can’t give up, not when Natasha, Sam and Steve still are out there fighting. Pushing his own pain aside, he’s good at that. He can do this. He _has_ to.

  The sound of the fight echoes around the forest. Sends his heart hammering violently behind his ribs, fear of being too late spreading through him like wildfire. He’s not sure where he is, he simply follows the sound of the fight as fast he can.

  Someone’s screaming - loud, so impossibly loud and heartbreaking; so raw, as if the soul is being ripped out of the person’s body. Following the scream, a shockwave of pure energy almost knocks Bucky down again. He stumbles, taking hold onto a nearby tree the last second to prevent his legs from giving in.

  What… the mind stone? Maximoff, _god,_ she must’ve destroyed it.

  The scream. The scream was for Vision.

  He needs to find the others. _Now_.

  

Bucky steps out of the bushes just in time to see the titan - _Thanos_ , vanish into thin air. The man with the axe is there, chest heaving up and down while he stares at the place where their foe used to be.

  Steve’s there too. ”Where did he go? Thor, where did _he go?”_ He’s never sounded like this. So complete and utterly broken. At least he’s alive, Bucky thinks, at least he won’t have to bury his best friend today.

  No sign of Sam. Not Sam, please. Not _Sam._

_Where’s Nat, god, he needs -_

Bucky tries to ignore the itch in his skin, one that spreads with complete unease while he spins around. He finds her instantly, blond hair dishevelled and dirt stained across her cheeks. The fear in her eyes is strong enough to make his blood turn cold.

  He can’t ignore it. The itch is everywhere, tugging at his insides and breaking him apart by the seams. This shouldn’t be happening. Whatever this, it’s not. It’s _not -_

 _Wrong. S_ o terribly, terribly wrong.

  ”Steve?” he says. He takes a step a forward, legs barely moving.

  No. _No._

   _He’s going to die._

Bucky falls forward, gun sliding out of his grasp. Natasha’s name is _right_ there - burning on his tongue, he just _needs - needs_ to tell her. Tell her _everything._ He breaks, melts, _disintegrates -_

  The gun rattles against the ground.

  No body follows.

  Only ashes.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the translations:
> 
> 1\. "Everything?"  
> 2\. "Enough. Bits and pieces."  
> 3\. "Much better."  
> 4\. "A pea-green jester." Idiom that means moron, or stupid idiot.  
> 5\. ”Softie.”  
> 6\. ”Handsome.”  
> 7\. ”I like you more.”
> 
> Follow [my tumblr](https://distant-solar-systems.tumblr.com/) if you want!
> 
> If you enjoyed the story, please a kudo or comment!
> 
> I'm kind of pleased with how this turned out, so hopefully I'll get to write for this pairing again in the future because honestly?? They're the best, and that's a fact!!
> 
> See you all in the next story! :') xx


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